Return to Innocence
by Lorien Urbani
Summary: Christine is asked to help them snatch our clever friend. But Christine refuses and eventually does another completely unexpected thing that leads to a totally different finale.
1. The Answer Is No

_This story is based on Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and Joel Schumacher's movie, with some elements from Gaston Leroux's novel. _

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Leroux's/ALW's characters and the original plot. Some of the characters are mine. _

_Enjoy!_

_

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__CHAPTER 1: The Answer Is No_

It was at the end of January, the coldest and gloomiest of all months. One month had passed since the glorious masked ball, such a sensation in Paris. But all of Paris, even the poor who could only dream of attending such a grand ball, knew that it ended badly. Every newspaper in France screamed to the sky:

_The Phantom of the Opera strikes again! The aspiring diva, Miss Christine Daaé, in the middle of the strange affair! Is this an intricately designed plot to supplant the great La Carlotta from her place? La Carlotta and her friends swear that Christine Daaé is plotting against her with a man who calls himself the Opera Ghost! Who is this man? What is the truth behind Miss Daaé and her mysterious companion?_

One would think that after a month, the rumours would die, that the interest in this matter would fade away. But that was, unfortunately, not so. Far from it. With every passing day, the interest in the Opera Ghost and his young, beautiful protégée grew stronger, to the point of becoming the imminent topic of every conversation. Journalists harassed the young diva Daaé, asking her annoying questions, terrible questions, intimate question, accusing questions! The poor girl was completely beside herself. She was completely lost and sometimes she truly believed that she was becoming mad, ripe enough to be locked in an asylum. Luckily, her betrothed was always by her side, comforting her, whispering soothing words of love and devotion into her distressed ears. But even he turned against her, or so it seemed to Christine, for on this particular day, he addressed her, the managers and all other artists working in the opera house.

They gathered on the stage. La Carlotta came late, followed by her friend, the leading tenor Ubaldo Piangi. She eyed Christine scathingly, sat down in a nearby chair, the abundance of her richly decorated skirts spreading on the floor around her, making her look like a majestic, victorious queen. She eyed Christine again and huffed in annoyance, looking for support in Ubaldo Piangi, who raised his chin and looked away. Christine bowed her head in shame. She knew all eyes were focused on her. She felt their gazes burn her skin like fire. Her cheeks were normally as pale as ivory or alabaster, but this time, they were almost as white as snow from all the anxieties she had been feeling lately. She wished to weep, to cry, to be forgotten and alone. But they would not let her be. Even Raoul would not let her be.

"We are gathered here," Raoul began to speak, "because Madame Giry received another letter from the Opera Ghost. I shall read it to you. You must know its contents because it concerns you all. Then, I will tell you about the plan Messieurs Firmin and Andre, and I, have formed."

Raoul unfolded the paper in his hands and read the words displayed before his eyes.

"Fondest greetings to you all! Just a few instructions before the first rehearsal starts. Carlotta must be taught to act, excluding completely her normal trick of strutting around the stage."

"What?" Carlotta screamed in outrage and stood up on her feet, as angry as ever, but the managers pleaded with her to let Monsieur de Chagny finish reading the letter. And so he did.

"Our Don Juan must lose some weight - it is not healthy in a man of Piangi's age. We must have our Don Juan look seductive and lithe, which signor Ubaldo is not - yet. And my managers must learn that their place is in their office, not the arts. As for Miss Christine Daaé, no doubt she shall do her best. It is true, her voice is good, she knows this. Though, should she wish to excel - she has much still to learn, if only her pride will let her return to me, her teacher. Your obedient friend, O.G."

Raoul folded the letter back to its original form and put it in his vest pocket. He looked at Christine, but her face was hidden behind the mass of curls pouring over her shoulders. He could see, though, that her shoulders were trembling. She was crying, assuredly. But he had to do this. He had to stop the Phantom's madness and save Christine from his grasp before she became completely lost and enthralled to the monster. He would break the venomous spell, whether Christine liked it or not. It was for her own good.

"Now," Raoul continued, "his opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_, is the perfect opportunity for us to ensnare our clever friend, Monsieur Opera Ghost. We shall play his game. We shall perform his work. But remember! _We_ hold the ace, for if Miss Daaé sings, he is certain to attend. The gendarmes will make certain that all doors will be barred. They shall be armed. And when the curtain falls, his reign will end."

Christine remained silent and withdrawn. She budged a little, but only so much that Raoul could make sure she did not become a statue. All others were listening to the viscount's words intently, so no one noticed the arrival of Madame Giry. She had come when Raoul read the letter and now, she was the first to express a reaction to his plan. She stepped forth and exclaimed,

"This is madness!"

All gasped, surprised by her reaction, frowning excessively.

"I am not so sure about that," Monsieur Andre offered a reply.

Firmin took a music sheet in his hands, stepped to the still Christine and woke her from her strange state of mind by thrusting the music sheet in her hands.

"Not if the plan works, and it _will_ work, because Miss Daaé will help us catch this fiend. The tide will turn! He shall be at the receiving end now."

Christine shuddered, her face a mixture of horror and despair, and took a step back. Madame Giry shook her head.

"Monsieur, believe me, there is no way of turning the tide."

"You stick to ballet!" Monsieur Firmin shouted at the ballet mistress. "Do you know that yesterday, the Opera Ghost, this monster, tried to kill Monsieur le Vicomte with his sword? At the cemetery! The man is clearly mad."

"You will not catch him," Madame Giry repeated indifferently.

"Are you on his side?" Firmin said and cornered Madame Giry. "Do you know him, Madame? Shall I send for the gendarmes now to arrest _you_?"

"How dare you!" Madame Giry spat and slapped Monsieur Firmin across the cheek. Then, she turned on her heels and left the stage. Richard Firmin was enraged.

"You are fired!" he shouted after Madame Giry while caressing his smarting cheek. "_Fired!_"

"Monsieur, please," Raoul tried, but then, Carlotta walked to them and pointed her index finger at Christine.

"She's the one behind this! Christine Daaé! This is all her doing!" Carlotta snarled.

Piangi chimed in. "Yes! This is the truth! She is connected to the fiend."

"Yes," Carlotta continued, "I am no fool. You are behind this. You may have a sweet, innocent face, Daaé, but you are corrupted, you are."

"Please," Christine whispered, pleading for help. She pressed the music sheet against her chest and tears started crawling down her pallid cheeks.

"What glory can you hope to gain, huh?" Carlotta was relentless. "It is clear you are insane! And you can't sing!"

"You will stop insulting my betrothed, do you hear me?" Raoul cried and turned to La Carlotta.

She chuckled in irony. "What, Monsieur le Vicomte? Do you truly believe in her innocence? Well, I pity you, for I am sure she lost her innocence with her accomplice, the Opera Ghost."

Christine gasped in shock and strode to La Carlotta, this time less distressed, but truly furious.

"How dare you..." Christine snarled. "How dare you, you evil woman? Why do you hate me so? I have never wronged you. I have been pulled into this horrible situation against my liking! Can you not see that? Must you insult me?"

She sobbed and turned her back to the diva. She could not bear to look in La Carlotta's face for a longer period of time. Carlotta simply huffed again and addressed the managers.

"You know where to find me," she said bitterly and disappeared from the stage with her entourage.

"Miss Daaé," Firmin began sweetly, smiling widely, "surely, you will sing. It is for all our sakes. Do you not wish to be free at last? And if you help us, I promise you that you will have a safe position of the leading soprano in this opera house. Always."

Christine shook her head desperately, fighting with tears bravely. "I thank you for your tempting offer, but I shall have to pass it. I cannot do it, Monsieur Firmin."

"Christine, they can't make you sing," Raoul tried to comfort her. "But Christine, think."

"Yes, Miss Daaé," Giles Andre agreed, "not only you would help us all, but also, I tell you, this is your duty. You have a duty, Miss Daae!"

"I cannot sing his opera, duty or not. I cannot do this," Christine replied firmly, her face blank.

"But why?" all three man asked.

"You cannot understand, and I do not blame you for that," Christine spoke silently. She looked at Raoul. "Raoul, please, I need your support."

"For pity's sake, Miss Daaé!" Firmin shouted. "You have to sing! Are you blind? Why on Earth are you protecting the fiend?"

"She said no," Raoul said.

"Well, make her say yes!" Firmin shouted again.

"I will try to convince her, but give me time. This situation is not very easy for her. She is nervous and tired. Let her be for a few moments."

"But you will convince her, _non_?"

"Yes, I will."

The men discussed Christine as if she had not been present. She stared at them in shock, not knowing what to do. She meant so little to them, to Raoul? Would he sacrifice her like a lamb to achieve their objective? Had she not tried to tell him herself why she could not do it? Her relationship with the Phantom was complicated, but she did care for him. She could not betray him. The men's voices grew louder, they began to argue. As the voices were rising in volume, so did Christine's anxiety and desperation grow stronger. She could not take it anymore, could not take it anymore! She threw the music sheet to the floor passionately and burst through the hubbub with a great cry.

"If you don't stop, I'll go mad!"

She nearly collapsed to her knees, weak from all the agony, but Raoul caught her in his arms in time and sat her down on a nearby chair.

"Christine, are you alright?" he asked her worriedly. The managers walked to the chair and observed her with concern. She did not heed their questions about how she was fairing. Her goal was to put sense in their minds. She looked at Raoul pleadingly, clutching him by his neatly arranged collar.

"Raoul, I am frightened. Do not make me do this. It scares me. Do not put me through this ordeal by fire!" she spoke hoarsely.

The fear she spoke of was evident in her widened eyes. "Raoul, please..." she continued, a stream of flowing crystals making its way down her delicate cheeks. "He will take me, I know, and we will be parted forever. For perpetuity! He will not let me go."

Her next words were spoken with a shaky bitterness. "Oh, Raoul, what I once used to dream, I now dread. If he finds me, it won't ever end. And he will always be there, singing songs in my head..."

Raoul embraced her gently. "Singing songs in my head..." she whispered against his vest, wetting the expensive material with her silent tears. "Always..."

Raoul made her look into his eyes. He caressed her cheeks tenderly. "I love you, Lotte. Do not think that I do not care. But you said yourself he was nothing but a man, like me. Yet, while he lives, love," he said firmly and kissed the knuckles on the backs of her hands, "he will haunt us till we are all dead."

Complete silence enveloped the stage for a few brief moments. All three men waited for Christine's response. She bowed her head sadly and smiled to herself. It was a bitter smile, conveying her feelings of being confined in a hopeless situation.

"Twisted every way..." she whispered. Then, she looked at Raoul again. "What answer can I give? Am I to risk my life...to win the chance to live?"

She slowly stood up and looked up into the scaffolding. She touched her chest where her heart lay. "Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice? Or do I become his prey? It seems you give me no choice...I know, he kills without a thought, he murders all that is good...I know, I cannot refuse, and yet, I wish I could."

Raoul walked to her and touched her shoulders. "Christine?"

"Oh, God," she whispered and entwined her fingers in silent prayer, "if I agree, what horrors wait for me, in his opera?"

She leaned against Raoul and he helped her back to the chair.

"What is your response, Miss Daaé?" Monsieur Andre asked carefully. He felt sorry for the girl, but no one had a choice. She closed her eyes, trying to forget the nightmare forming around her.

Raoul tried one last time. "Christine, again, I ask you, do not think that I don't care. But, every hope and every prayer rests on _you_. What is your choice?"

She knelt on the ground and collected the scattered sheets of paper, her copy of_ Don Juan Triumphant_. A pleased smile spread over Firmin's face, but just then, Christine did something unexpected. She tore the music sheet in half, stood up on her feet and threw the now useless paper in the men's faces.

"My answer is no!"

"Christine!"

"Miss Daaé!"

She ignored their pleas, their shocked faces, knowing fully well that this was not the end, that they would follow her and harass her until they had convinced her to help them catch the Phantom.

"Now, leave me be. I need some time to think."

She left the men, all three of them gaping after her. They had just met a Christine Daaé no one knew lived inside this girl.


	2. In the Chapel of Guardian Angels

_Thank you so much for your reviews! _

_A word of explanation - I didn't say it before because I was curious about your reactions. In this story, I will focus on Christine more than on other characters. I believe that Christine always turns out to be a sniveling little child, too confused, undecided and naive for her own good. I will make her a stronger, more independent character. As a reviewer – Urska – put it perfectly, she's not yet good at being strong, but she will eventually turn into such a woman. _

_Another note: My Christine is older than Emmy Rossum's Christine. She is not 16, but 20, closer to her age in Leroux's book. I will include this info in one chapter, of course, but this might help you picture her better already. _

_Enjoy!_

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own Leroux's/ALW's/Schumacher's characters, apart from those that I intend to create. I don't write fanfiction for profit, but for entertainment._

_

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__CHAPTER 2: In the Chapel of Guardian Angels_

Christine sought solace in the opera chapel, the one place in the world where she felt safe from people and where she could be at peace with herself. Ironically, the chapel was called _The Chapel of Guardian Angels_.

_Interesting creatures, angels,_ she thought. No human being ever saw an angel, but all knew angels possessed ethereal beauty, beauty unknown to humans, and possibly, not meant for humans to see. Of course, people needed to see images; they had eyes for that purpose – to see the world with all its beauties and flaws. As angels were servitors of God, His voice and His messengers, people created a perfect image of them. Many had tried to capture their heavenly bodies and faces into statues, paintings and frescos, but all had failed, for the divinity of these celestial beings was not in their faces resembling earthly creatures – men. Perhaps angels did not even have a clear image, at least not known to humans. But one thing was certain and all should keep it in mind – the divinity of angels lived in their souls and their spirits, not on their faces.

Christine pondered in this way over angels as she was sitting on the cold floor of the chapel, her gaze focused on the fresco of archangel Gabriel shackled to the wall of the alcove before her. She observed the angel's serene countenance and the pious look of Virgin Mary as she was told she was to become a mother to the Saviour. Christine lit a candle on the candle-stand and clasped her hands together in a prayer. She bowed her head humbly and prayed.

"I ask for your guidance, Virgin. Pray to the angels to send the Holy Spirit to me to enlighten my confused thoughts. I do not know what to do, Mother. I should follow my reason; I should follow Raoul's guidance. The man whom I once believed to be my Angel of Music has sinned gravely. He killed a man. He tried to kill my betrothed and he wishes to make me his by force."

She sighed. "But Mother, I owe this man so much. I have prayed for the redemption of his sins. Will he be forgiven? I can only pray for him."

She glanced at the painted window on her right. Light seeping through a narrow opening on the other side pierced the colours painted on the glass and spilled them over the ground, creating a peaceful, warm, dreamy atmosphere. The halo above the angel's head shone brightly, almost blinding her as she looked at it for a longer period of time. She lowered her gaze and gasped. Her lips trembled and a tear escaped her eye. She moved to the window and picked a crimson red rose in her hand. The flower had been put there before her arrival, she assumed, and the black ribbon tied around its thorn-less stem told her it came from her...Who? How should she call him? Angel? No. Angel did not seem proper anymore. He was a man and her Catholic belief prevented her from referring to a man as an angel. The Phantom? After their past, this word seemed too harsh and cruel. It depicted a villain and he was more than a mere villain. How should she call him? Friend...A strange friend, indeed. She felt completely divided when it came to her mysterious friend. Her illusions were broken, all broken, and suddenly, it seemed that the Devil was tempting her to betray him.

It was her devotion to her mysterious friend that made her say no to all pleas to destroy him. They were connected, if she wished so or refused it, they were connected. He deceived her; he drove her to the edge of a dark abyss. He had killed and he was preparing to take her, for if she at last agreed to sing his opera, he would lure her in his arms with his song and take her to his home, and she would never see the light of day again. She would be his prisoner. And yet, he went to extremes for her, because he loved her so much. As much as she understood from their conversations in the past, he had spent most of his life in that obscure cave under the opera house, almost leading the life of a hermit. No one had ever taught him to distinguish right from wrong. He was driven through life by his many passions and he simply could not care for possible victims on his path. She was his link to the world outside. She could help him.

But not now, not yet. First, she had to be alone for a while, to think about everything in peace and quiet. She had to become stronger without being constantly guided by someone, be it Raoul or her mysterious friend. She refused to hurt Raoul, and she refused to hurt her mysterious friend. She also knew that both men would try to press on her, each of them pulling her to his side without being aware of how much they hurt her. She loved Raoul, but alas, she was beginning to realize she did not love him enough to become his companion for life. That night when her mysterious friend killed Joseph Buquet, Christine needed comfort and protection. The face of her childhood friend chased away all her fears. His promises of love warmed her heart and her first kiss made her happy. But she was blinded by her own sensations. She needed to feel safe so urgently that she was willing to grasp any form of salvation. Was that fair to Raoul? It was not. She loved him dearly, as a sister loved her brother. His intimate caresses became redundant to her, for sisters did not kiss their brothers. She knew that now. If only she had not been so blind in the past! Raoul would have walked away from her with dignity and they could have remained friends. Instead, she led him to believe she would marry him. Oh, she believed then that she would. But she realized she did not even know him.

When she was ten years of age, she met a boy and they became inseparable for a fortnight. Then, the boy had to leave and came back ten years later. She did not even know the man this boy had become. She treasured their fond memories, but that was all she could treasure – their friendship. She had to tell him she would not marry him. He was a stranger to her, God forgive her these thoughts. She wished to be independent. She yearned for freedom, for a bit of freedom. What did she feel for her mysterious friend, aside from the devotion that originated from the days he helped her cope with her sorrow, from the days when he was her Angel of Music? She did not know. She did not wish to know. Time would show her.

After deep self-reflection, Christine stood up from the ground and headed to her room she shared with Meg and two other ballerinas. She found a sheet of paper and a pencil in a rather poor shape, and sat down on a chair by a small window. Then, she wrote:

_Madame Giry!_

_You have always been like a mother to me, which is why it pains me so much to part from You like this, without saying a proper goodbye. I have decided to leave this opera house for some time. Life in this place has begun to choke me. I was forced to become divided between two men, and I simply cannot live like this any longer. I hope Raoul will understand...I will meet him when I am ready, I promise. And I will write to you when I arrive at my destination, to tell you how I am fairing. Please, when my letter arrives to you, do not speak to anyone about my whereabouts. I will come back myself - __when I am ready__. I need to rest and put my thoughts and my heart at ease. If I leave, no one will be hurt. I could never hurt HIM...Do You understand? Somehow, I know You do. I have one more request. Raoul revealed to me that You know my former tutor faintly...If there is any way in the world You can contact him, please, tell him that Christine wishes for no more accidents to happen. He will always be present in my prayers, and in my heart. I love You. Tell Meg I love her as well. She is my sister. I only hope she will understand and will not be angry with me for departing in secret._

_Your daughter, Christine._

Christine looked at the rose she was still holding in her hand and kissed its crimson petals gently, unaware of the fact that the same petals had been kissed before by her mysterious friend. She shed a few tears over the flower and they rested on the petals like morning dew. She then put the rose on the nightstand and packed the few of her belongings in her small black portmanteau – her nightgown, her Sunday dress, her rosary, the miniature of her father and a wallet containing a few francs she had saved over the years. She left her diary she had been writing for so many years in her drawer. The diary was the past, and she wished to escape the past. She pulled a thin black shawl over her head and a warm woolen plaid around her shoulders. She was ready to go. She took one last glance of her room, sighed in melancholy and left the room at last. The red rose remained on the nightstand.

After successfully leaving the letter in Madame Giry's room, Christine left the opera house unnoticed, much to her surprise and luck. She hailed a cab and asked the coachman to take her to the train station. In an hour's time, she was sitting on a seat of a train headed for Perros-Guirec. She was ready to return home.

To the house by the sea...

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_Nota Bene_: In Christine's letter to Madame Giry, I used "You" (capitalized) instead of "you". It is meant as a sign of respect and also to indicate that, as many languages have it, that she is referring to Madame Giry, as is in German, as Sie, not as du, or in French, Vous, not toi. It was very common in those times to refer to one's relatives, even parents, in such a way.


	3. Consequences of Madame Giry's Mission

_CHAPTER 3: The Consequences of Madame Giry's Mission_

It was noon, two hours after Christine Daaé's departure. Madame Giry entered the corridor in which the managers' office was situated. She raised her arm briefly to knock on the door, but she lowered it just as briefly when she heard the arguing voices of Messieurs Firmin and Andre echoing from the room, and the voice of Viscount de Chagny trying to soothe their chagrin. Madame Giry smirked to herself, remembering how she slapped Monsieur Firmin recklessly and how he fired her. Oh, she would leave the opera house if that was what Monsieur Firmin desired. She was a proud woman. She would never allow a man to order her around, or humiliate her. But first, she would tell them the news that had saddened her so. She raised her arm again and knocked on the wood this time.

"Enter!" she heard Monsieur Andre shout and she opened the door firmly, an indifferent expression displayed on her usually stern, unyielding face. Monsieur Firmin frowned grotesquely.

"You were fired, Madame Giry! What are you doing here?" he snarled, the shameful memory still gnawing at his brain.

"Do you truly mean to fire Madame Giry?" Raoul asked in disbelief.

"You saw what she did to me, Monsieur. I don't like to be insulted. And when I am, then my offender needs to be punished. It's in the Bible – eye for an eye, tooth for tooth."

_A man's words_, _not our Lord's_, Madame Giry thought. "I have a letter. From Christine Daaé," Madame Giry spoke calmly, not touched in the least by Firmin's angry words.

"Christine?" Raoul exclaimed and walked to Madame Giry immediately.

"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte. I shall read an extract from her letter." She unfolded the paper. "I have decided to leave this opera house for some time. Life in this place has begun to choke me. I simply cannot live like this. I hope Raoul will understand...I will meet him when I am ready, I promise. I need to rest and put my thoughts and my heart at ease. If I leave, no one will be hurt."

"Capital!" Firmin exclaimed and collapsed into his chair. "How could she just leave? What will we do now? She was our only chance to catch the Opera Ghost. Now what? Will we remain his humble servants? When she comes back, she will have to answer to me, yes!"

Giles Andre ignored his partner's words and turned to Raoul. "Monsieur le Vicomte, do we still perform his opera?"

Raoul nodded in defeat. "Yes," he sighed, "he knows the rehearsals start tomorrow. If we change our minds now, there will be victims, I am afraid. It pains me to be a slave to this villain, but he is beyond us. Christine...She was the only one who could...I am sorry, Monsieur Andre, I must speak to Madame Giry. Madame?"

The ballet mistress nodded and they stepped outside.

"Tell me, did she say anything more in her letter?"

"She will come back, monsieur. She will. But you must give her time. These last months have been very trying for her."

Raoul bowed his head. "Can I still call her my betrothed?"

Madame Giry did not know what to say. "I...I don't know, Monsieur. She will come back and then you will know." She turned on her heels, ready to leave.

"No, wait, Madame Giry. Where are you going?"

"To pack my belongings," she said with a smile.

Raoul shook his head. "No, as long as I am a patron of this opera house, you will remain the leading ballet mistress."

"Thank you, Monsieur," she replied and bowed her head in respect. Then, she left.

Raoul buried his face in the cradle of his hands and sighed deeply. Then, he began to cry in silence. Voltaire once said that tears were the silent language of grief. Raoul de Chagny had every reason to shed them.

* * *

Madame Giry did not return to her room, but went to the opera chapel first. She had a tedious task to accomplish, but it had to be done. Luckily, she would not have to be there when he would learn the news. She knew well he had not heard about the quarrel on the stage, and that he had not learnt about Christine's departure. Now that his opera was to be performed, he began to work on his Requiem. He told her so himself. On rare occasions when they met, he sometimes spoke to her about his music and his plans for the future. Otherwise, he was a very secretive man, even more inaccessible and mysterious than the myth of Atlantis.

They were friends when he was a boy and she a young woman. But as he was growing into a man himself, he became more aware of the world around him and grew more bitter with every day, which led him into the life of a complete recluse. She fell in love with a stagehand, Jules Giry, and her friend felt abandoned and forgotten. When Meg was born and Madame Giry had to focus on her daughter entirely, her husband having died in a tragic accident, they ceased to talk. She was now only his messenger and occasionally they met, but she had to leave him a letter first. Only then he would meet her. Sometimes, she questioned herself about why she was loyal to a man like him. But she knew the answer – she cared for him. She believed that the hard, hostile man was just another mask he wore, a shield to protect himself from all emotional harm. She still saw that enthusiastic boy with great expectations from life; a sweet, delicate soul, a child of nature, a genius, a musician. He was like a son to her. Though, he was a lost son now. But did not the lost son from that gospel return home, repented and a better man?

She prayed the same would happen to him. In secret, she hoped Christine would save him. In secret, she hoped that the girl would grow to love him as deeply and passionately as he loved her, with complete devotion. She could be his salvation, for he had been leading the life of a tormented soul in Purgatory and his flame would eventually extinguish from all the exertion, if he would not change his ways. Hope had to be rekindled in this man. Hope, faith and the feeling that he was not entirely ignored and shunned from human existence. Madame Giry descended down the stone stairs and entered the chapel. She stopped her pace, listened for a moment and then walked to the painted glass, which was actually a window that could be opened. She felt for the spring with her fingers, pressed on a small button when she found it and the window slid open like the mirror in La Carlotta's dressing room. Before he came to the opera house, the window could easily be opened, but he replaced the simple mechanism with an intricate design. The window was one of the paths leading to his underworld and he had to protect them all. Madame Giry did not step into the murky corridor on the other side. She merely took the letter from her pocket and put it on a small shelf in the damp wall. She knew he would come to look for his "regular mail". Completing the chore, she closed the window and left.

When she returned to her room, she knelt by her bed and began to pray for Christine and all the others who were involved in the drama of the grandest opera house in the world.

* * *

The Phantom stared at the music sheet before him, his back leaning against the wood of his chair, his arms folded across his chest. A deep frown adorned his brow and formed tiny wrinkles around his eyes, not yet coming from old age, for he was only three-and-thirty, but from discontentment. Something was missing to the voices from the choir. Why did he not see it? Of course, the violins! He used them only in the prelude to his _Dies Irae_ and with the first words sung, but then he subdued them with voices. How wrong he was! He grabbed his quill and started scrambling notes on the paper ardently. Now, the violins echoed together with the voices, adding to the agony of the words to be sung.

_The day of wrath, that day which will reduce the world to ashes,  
as foretold by David and the Sybil._

Now, pleased with his piece at last, he decided to rest for a little while. He had been working on his _Dies Irae_ all morning and even Mozart had to sleep, though the Phantom was convinced Mozart would have much rather composed more and slept less. He took a fresh apple from the basket on his kitchen table and took a bite. Then, a thought occurred to him. Should he use his name on the first page of his Requiem? He would like that. But still, there was no way he could show himself in public. Not yet.

He finished eating the apple, put on his cape and slid open a mirror in a wall of the cave. Soon, he entered the window corridor, as he called it. It was the corridor behind the opera chapel. He listened intently and realized the chapel was not occupied. When his angel was in the chapel, she was very silent, like a mouse, but he could feel her presence, even if she did not make the faintest of sounds. Her beauty and goodness were radiant, and through her he began to believe that angels and saints were not only myths, but a reality. When she smiled, he heard celestial music. If she guffawed, she did not sound terrible, but rather like the soft strings of a violin presenting a beautiful arpeggio and her chuckle resembled the sounds of a brook exiting the Earth in ultimate joy.

He sighed at the memory and noticed a letter on the small shelf.

"So, Madame has news..." he said to himself, took the letter and returned to his home. He took off his cape, his tailcoat and his vest, and went to his bedroom. He lied down on the simple bed and rested his head against the pillow. He broke the seal indifferently and read.

_Erik!_

_I am writing to you to tell you the unsettling news. Christine left the opera house sometime today. I do not know when because she only left me the letter I have enclosed for you to read. She is tired of living such a life – a life of constant agony and fear. She feels divided, poor girl, and you are partly responsible for her state, my friend. She will come back, but when __she__ is ready. She will write to me and I will tell you how she is fairing, but I warn you in advance not to ask me about her whereabouts. Men have been masters of our lives for centuries. Christine decided to put a stop to such despotic ways. She is trying to save her exhausted soul, and she is trying to save you, Erik. The managers wished to hunt you down with her help, but she declined. I am sure she cares for you, but I hope you know it is not enough to only love a woman. You must also let her live her own life and respect her as she is. You and Raoul de Chagny both committed a huge mistake – you tried to control her. Now, she may remain lost to you... Be well, my friend. Be at ease, for she will return. But it depends on your future behaviour if she stays._

_Eléonore Giry_

Erik, the Opera Ghost, suddenly felt a great void encircling his heart. He felt tears sting his eyes and his mouth curved into a line of rage and despair.

_She feels divided, poor girl, and you are partly responsible for her state, my friend._

"My fault..." he whispered. Quickly, he tore the other letter open, Christine's letter. He sighed achingly at the sight of the delicate tendrils she had shaped into letters. Her pencil touched this paper in his hands. Her fingers shaped the letters...He slid his fingers down the pattern of words, imagining he was touching Christine's fingers, which had shaped the letter.

"Oh, Christine..." He could not read her letter, tears had blinded his visage. "Why did you run away from me?"

_She is trying to save her exhausted soul, and she is trying to save you, Erik. The managers wished to hunt you down with her help, but she declined. I am sure she cares for you, but I hope you know it is not enough to love a woman. You must also let her live her own life and respect her as she is._

"Oh, Christine, will you ever learn to love me? Fear _can_ turn to love. If only you could learn to see the man behind this...this monster...who dreams of beauty secretly...Oh, Christine..."

He had never even thought about the possibility that she would leave. But, did she not leave the boy, too? Suddenly, the world seemed brighter to Erik. He would find her and make her his.

_You and Raoul de Chagny both committed a huge error – you tried to control her._

Eléonore Giry was right, unfortunately. His love frightened Christine. But he would try to mend what he had destroyed. He would find Christine and then, he would woo her. Slowly, he would lure her back into his arms. She would be his. He had time.

Madame Giry wrote: _Men have been masters of our lives for centuries. Christine decided to put a stop to such despotic ways._

Erik ignored her words and counsel. He did not read Christine's letter that would tell him more than he could have imagined. He only had one idea in his mind – that Christine abandoned Raoul de Chagny as well.

There was still much even a genius like Erik would have to learn.


	4. A Revelation in Perros Guirec

Author's Note: Please, do not feel offended by Christine's prayers. As far as I could muster from the book, she is a Catholic, so I try to follow that a bit, as well. That is all. Lorien Urbani

* * *

_CHAPTER 4: A Revelation In Perros-Guirec_

"Mademoiselle Christine, wake up. The train has arrived to Perros-Guirec."

Christine awoke with a startle and looked at the nice old lady to whom she had been talking before she fell asleep. She rubbed her eyes gently and gave a shining smile to the lady.

"Thank you, Madame Thibaud, for waking me from my sleep. I feel so ashamed that I fell asleep in the middle of our conversation. But Madame, your words were so comforting, and your story so beautiful and peaceful."

Madame Thibaud nodded and smiled. "Well, sweetheart, no need to feel ashamed. We have journeyed for three days and the inns on our way were not exactly comfortable, one could say. But I am very pleased that you decided to see Dreux Chartre, Le Mans and Rennes with me. I had thought the journey would be a lonely one for me."

"I knew I could trust you, Madame Thibaud. And so I decided to accept your friendship," Christine answered her words warmly. "Thank you for these wonderful three days. I have never seen so many beautiful things."

"Nor have you ever drunk such hot chocolate as they make in Rennes. I am quite sure that it tastes better than any aphrodisiac for gods."

Christine joined Madame Thibaud in joyful laughter. Then, she picked up her portmanteau and embraced the old lady.

"I shall miss you, Madame Thibaud."

"And I shall miss you, Christine Daaé. But my house is in Brest and Brest, after all, is not far from Perros-Guirec. I gave you my address. Do not forget to write to me, sweet child, and do come and visit old Flavie in Brest."

"I promise," Christine said and bid farewell to Madame Flavie, whom she met for the first time on the train, but nonetheless, they became friends, both of them being two lonely souls. Christine exited the train and stepped on the platform, breathing in the flagrant air of the ancient tales of Brittany. Brittany had always been her most beloved region of France. Not that she had visited many regions, but Brittany was her home, the treasury of her happy childhood. Tears of complete felicity filled her eyes and she shed them gladly because she returned home at last. Paris ceased to exist and there was only her beloved Perros-Guirec, its wild grey sea and the pink granite coast.

She hailed a cab to take her to the town.

"Where to, 'moiselle?"

Christine smiled widely. "To the inn _Three Deers, _please."

They arrived at the inn in short time and Christine entered the old half-timbered house, designed in the typical architecture of Brittany. Memories wafted in the air and Christine could almost see her father sitting at his favourite table, eating his favourite lunch and telling her old tales. She stepped by the counter and asked the inn-keeper whether she could take a room. Luckily, they had a free room.

"For how long will you be staying here, mademoiselle?"

Christine bit her lip nervously, not knowing the correct answer. An image of her father's cottage came to her mind. She wondered if anyone lived there now.

"I…A week, for now. Pray, monsieur, I would like to ask you if anyone lives in _L'Œillet_?"

"_The Cottage of Carnations_? Yes, _m_ademoiselle. A nice family moved in about a year ago. Fabien and Geneviève Pioche, with their daughter Rosemonde."

"Rosemonde? What a beautiful name."

"Yes, for a good, beautiful little girl that Rosemonde is." The inn-keeper frowned. "Do not understand me wrongly, mademoiselle, but why do you ask about them?"

Christine blushed. "Oh, forgive me my prying monsieur…You see, I grew up in the cottage and I thought about seeing it after many years…"

"Ah, you lived there? Wonderful, mademoiselle. Well, Fabien and Geneviève are very friendly. I am certain that they will be happy about your visit, especially since you lived there at one time. Geneviève always wanted to know who lived in the cottage before them."

Christine smiled with her eyes; her lips were trembling from excitement. "I thank you for your kindness, monsieur."

She then realized she was very hungry and she sat behind a table in the dining room of the inn. She ordered her father's favourite lunch - _cotriade_, the famous Breton stew made of different kinds of fish and potatoes; _clafoutis_ with prunes for dessert; and cider to drink. Christine, eating her _clafoutis _slowly, looked out through the lattice window, calmly observing the grey, curly waves in the distance, crushing at the pink granite rocks, washing away the pearly pebbles from the shore. It was a cold, windy winter day, but Christine had not felt so warm in her heart for months. She saw the sleeping heather above the shore, imagining its red and pink heads in spring, and the korrigans dancing by the moonlight on the heather. She closed her eyes and wandered through time, to her father's cottage; to the attic where she and Raoul enjoyed their picnics when it rained; to her father's music room where he played his violin and told his daughter and her friend Norse sagas and Breton legends. She always implored him to tell her about the Angel of Music, and father would reply,

"But you already know everything about the Angel of Music, my child."

"Please, papa! Tell us about the Angel! Let us sing his song!"

And so, her father told them the story and the children listened eagerly, but not so much to the story; no, they listened carefully because they did not wish to miss the Angel's voice that might have whispered a melody in their ears. Then, father Daaé began to play his violin and Christine sang with all her heart,

_Angel of Music,_

_Guide and guardian,_

_Grant to me your glory._

_Angel of Music,_

_Hide no longer,_

_Come to me, sweet Angel._

Christine woke up from her reverie and finished her meal. Then, she left the inn and went for a walk. Her feet automatically carried her to a cove where she once played with Raoul. She met him there on another windy day when the wind stole her favourite red scarf and threw it into the frothing waves of the angry sea. Raoul was a brave boy, eager to please and impress the little lady he had noticed, and he jumped into the water like a hero, bringing out the red scarf and his wet person. They became friends immediately. But there was nothing left of that friendship now, Christine thought bitterly. She left him and he must hate her. He loved her and wished to make her his wife and for a time she believed that could happen. But how could a marriage exist normally, if true love did not exist in the hearts of both lovers? Should she lie, suffer and live a life of deceit, at the same time inflicting the same suffering upon Raoul's shoulders? Of course not. But she caused him pain and that made her feel miserable. Tears crawled down Christine's alabaster cheeks.

"Oh, Raoul, my intention was never to hurt you," she whispered into the howling wind.

A violent gust of winter breath enveloped her and tore her black scarf from her head. She watched the see engulf the scarf, but Raoul was not there to save it and bring it to her. Her legs gave way to sorrow and she crumbled to the ground, pebbles pinching her knees.

"Raoul, I hope that in your heart you will find forgiveness for me. My dearest friend…"

She looked into the sky with a lachrymose face and saw the pale sun through the mist of clouds. The sun became a face, her maestro's face. He smiled to her and invited her to follow him. Christine shrieked and covered her eyes with her fingers.

"Will you always be there, singing songs in my head?" she cried and let out a sob. She peeped through her fingers and the face was no more. There was only the pale sun, and the sea, and the wind. Nothing more. No face, no songs in her head.

She calmed down and slowly returned to the inn. She went to her room, slipped in her nightgown and searched for refuge from disturbing emotions in the safe warmth of the bed. But she could not sleep. In the cove, she learnt the truth, the truth that she could hardly admit even to herself. She suffered because her love was reserved for her mysterious friend – her maestro, the Phantom. And it was not easy to accept a truth like this. Christine tried to guess when this strong love for that dark man began to blossom in her heart and the answer came as a shock to her. From the moment their secretive lessons began, she, against her better judgment, perceived him as a man of flesh and bones whom, by some unusual trick, she could not see. He was never just the Voice, but a Someone. She had to convince herself many a time with great difficulty that her tutor was a spirit sent to her as the Angel of Music whom she could not love, but only admire and respect as any other human that admired and respected divine creatures. How many times she believed she lived in horrible sin because she wished the Angel of Music to be a real man whom she could touch and embrace. She loved his voice, she admired his words.

She loved him and she could not say why. She simply loved him and to a certain extent, she even understood him. When he appeared before her as a real man, she was happy and doubtful. She felt deceived and robbed of trust. But her dreams came true…How could she be angry then? It was the Phantom of the Opera she feared and that evil side of him pushed her away. Should love endure all evils? She was not strong enough for the feat.

She touched the little cross hanging from her thin necklace and said a prayer for all she loved.

"And dear Jesus, lead my love by the power of Your love and grace to the right path," she whispered fervently. "Protect him. Do not let any harm be done to him. Give him a chance to repent and turn to goodness. I know he is good."

She shed a few tears for her mysterious friends. Then, she covered herself to her ears and fell asleep. At least she was happy in her dreams. She danced by the moonlight with the korrigans and her father was playing his violin.


	5. Of Roses And Memories

_CHAPTER 5: Of Roses and Memories_

The sun's warm rays sneaked through the rent between the curtains of Christine's room and awoke the young woman from her restless sleep. Christine opened her eyes drowsily, yawned in a dainty manner and abandoned the comfortable, warm bed. She tugged at the rope to summon a maid and when a maid came, Christine asked for a bowl of tepid water to wash her face. While she was waiting for the maid to bring her water, she dressed herself in her simple black gown and a white blouse. She combed her hair and braided them, tying the curls with a black ribbon that was always present in her hair – it was one of the ribbons that were once tied to the crimson roses once given to her daily by him, her mysterious friend. She looked at herself in the cheval glass and heaved a reminiscent sigh. But she scolded herself quickly. She did not come to Perros-Guirec to think about the past and the man she so dearly loved, but whom she left behind in Paris, too afraid to face him now that she knew the truth about her feelings for him. No, the purpose of her escape was to rest her weary, tormented soul and enjoy the peace and ancient tranquility of the town that was far away from the maddening crowds of Paris and far away from the disturbing events and feelings that haunted her even when her eyes were open and her mind fully awake.

She winced when the maid knocked and opened the door, bringing her the bowl of tepid water she had asked for. Christine dipped her palms into the water and gratefully washed her face that looked worn and too white from the sleepless night. Then, she put on her warm cloak over her shoulders and a shawl over her head, and left the inn. She decided to pass breakfast and wait for lunch. She was not hungry at all; she was too excited now, for her intention was to visit her father's old cottage. Though it was winter, the morning was warm, for the wild wind had subsided and the sun won a battle over the grey clouds. Christine grinned to herself and ran down the path that led the way to _L'Œillet_ along the shore. The grey sea was quiet and Christine reached the house in dry clothes. When the sight of her old home opened before her, she sighed and tears filled her eyes, sliding down her cheeks gently.

"Papa…" she whispered, as many fond memories began to overflow her softly.

The cottage had not changed much. But it would be naive of her to think that it would remain intact over the years. Once, the cottage was surrounded merely by grass and its lattice windows bathed in the blossoms of red carnations that her father used to plant in earthenware. Christine's mother loved carnations beyond all flowers and this was how father Daaé kept the memory of his wife Annabelle vividly alive. He planted the flowers in spring and by summer the windows of the cottage were hidden behind the beautiful soft petals of red carnations. No one ever believed that those delicate flowers would grow here, but Christine's father proved all of the townspeople wrong. The cottage became one of the sights of the town particularly because of the beautiful carnations that blossomed in abundance in spite of the raw winds of Bretagne, and eventually, the townspeople gave it a name - _L'Œillet_, the Cottage of Carnations.

Christine observed her old home in wonder. Of course there were no carnations in January, but she could see that there never would be any carnations anymore, for the front of the house was buried under a different sort of flower completely. There were no blossoms yet visible, but Christine recognized the thorny stems as the fruits of rose bushes. Christine gasped involuntarily and not without a shade of excitement, for roses had a special place in her heart and they reminded her of her mysterious friend. How could they not? Rose bushes, caught in their winter slumber, were everywhere! Climbing up the walls of the cottage, surrounding it, dangling down from numerous trellises. Christine imagined the image of the house in spring when all the rose bushes would be in full blossom and she heaved a happy sigh. At first she was almost angry that the new owners of the cottage decided to settle for roses instead of carnations; it felt as if they had erased her father's and her mother's presence from the cottage completely. But now she felt delighted.

She walked to the door and raised her hand to knock on the oak wood, but she could not manage the simple feat. She was coy and afraid of the reaction of the Pioche's. What would they think of her, coming to them to see her old home? It was _their _home now. But she did not have a choice. Suddenly, the door flew open and a young woman appeared before her eyes. Christine, startled as she was, winced visibly and took a step back. Then, her eyes focused on the person before her. Christine observed the young woman standing before her, smiling at her serenely, in utter wonder, and to her horror she realized that a sensation similar to that of envy pulsed through her veins. The woman was a truly startling figure, brilliant in her beauty. Her hair that ran freely across her shoulders, all the way to her waste, were gently wavy and of such a colour that Christine could only compare to the dark red colours of the sun right before sunset. The woman's magnificent mane even sparkled in different colours in the beautiful morning light – it was mostly like the red of pomegranates, enriched with hues of Venetian red and maroon. Her eyes were like two brilliant emeralds, perfectly green, deep and mysterious. Almost like her beloved's eyes, only much more green and sparkling. Her skin was perfectly smooth and milk white, like the porcelain skin of a princess. Her moves were naturally elegant and graceful, and she smiled so serenely and naturally that she reminded Christine of the painting of Mona Lisa. Her ears were pierced and two gold earrings with emerald stones hung from the earlobes, accentuating the powerful beauty of her eyes. She was dressed in a dark green velvet gown and she resembled a medieval Celtic princess reigning in a Breton castle of grey stone.

Christine felt so small and unimportant in the presence of this striking woman so superior to her. But she came to her senses, roughly reprimanding herself for her foolishness in her thoughts, and managed a trembling smile as she approached the red-haired princess….uh, woman. Christine cleared her throat and spoke shyly,

"Excuse me, mademoiselle, uh, Madame, perhaps….My-my name is Christine Daaé and I wished to visit you. You see, I once lived here in this cottage. I dearly hope that I am not interrupting you…"

The red-haired woman laughed, but no sound came from her mouth, which caused for a frown to form on Christine's brow. The woman pointed to her ears and shook her head with a smile. Christine did not understand the meaning of the gesture.

"I-I beg your pardon? I do not think I quite understand…"

For the first time, Christine noticed that, as she spoke, the woman's eyes followed the movement of her lips. When Christine closed her mouth, the woman smiled again in understanding. She cleared her throat and spoke with a voice that startled Christine in a negative manner – the voice was husky and forced. It seemed as if the woman had spoken for the first time, and she sounded more like a crow than a human. Still, there was some beauty even to her terrible voice.

"I am deaf," were the words and suddenly Christine understood.

"Oh!" she exclaimed and blushed in embarrassment. How could she be so dumb as to not realize this before! She shook her head apologetically.

"I am so sorry! I did not…Oh, mademoiselle, I am so terribly sorry!"

But the woman simply smiled her brilliant smile, took Christine by the hand and led her into the warmth of the house. Christine did not resist; she followed the red-haired woman gladly, all the while wondering if this was Geneviève Pioche, the mother of the Pioche family. The woman led her to the kitchen Christine knew so well and there was another woman, older than the read-headed girl. She was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping her tea and at the same time writing in a notebook with an old-fashioned quill, such as she had seen in her maestro's underground abode. The woman behind the table lifted her green eyes and looked at Christine. Her lips spread into a smile similar to that of the red-haired woman's and she quickly approached Christine.

"Oh, hello! I have not seen you before, have I?" she chirped gaily. "My name is Geneviève Pioche and I see you already met my daughter Rosemonde. Pray, dear girl, what brings you to our humble cottage? We are always so happy to receive visitors!"

Christine stared at Geneviève Pioche in surprise. The red-haired korrigan was Rosemonde, then? This was almost unbelievable! The inn-keeper spoke of Rosemonde as if she had been a little girl of about ten years of age. Christine expected to meet a child, but now it appeared that Rosemonde was an adult woman of about twenty years of age, just like herself, and she was also deaf, which made Christine sorry for her. How, oh how could anyone endure a life without music?

"Oh," Christine began, "my name is Christine Daaé and I came to see your cottage because I grew up in it. I wanted to see it again after so many years. I do not wish to intrude…"

"Nonsense! You grew up here?" Geneviève Pioche repeated joyfully. "How wonderful! Please, have a sit. Rosemonde, prepare tea for Miss Daaé, please."

Rosemonde nodded obediently as Christine followed her mother to the table.

"I am very happy that you decided to visit us, Miss Daaé. I have always wanted to know who lived in this cottage before us. How exciting that you came for a visit! As you can see, we take care of the cottage nicely. You probably noticed some of the changes around the house. You see, I adore roses, and as I have much free time at my disposal, I grow them. I hope you will stay in Perros long enough to see them bloom in spring! Let's see, I grow _Félicité Parmentier_, _Great Maiden's Blush_, _Crépuscule_, _La Belle Sultane_, _Camayeux_, _Madame Hardy_, _Orpheline de Juillet_ – my favourite rose – , red China roses, and of course, the crimson and the dark red Damask roses. I know that these names do not mean much to you. I love my roses and I always chatter about them without thinking much that my babbling might not interest all."

She chuckled.

Christine smiled warmly and with enthusiasm. Madame Geneviève was such a chatterbox, and a highly pleasant woman at that. She somehow reminded Christine of dear Meg and the pleasant memory of her friend and sister in spirit almost brought a tear to her eye; yet, she managed to control herself perfectly.

"I do not know roses by their names, but I do love roses…especially those with big petals and of dark red colour."

"Oh, yes, the dark red Damask rose, I'm sure! Such a perfect flower, don't you think? A good choice, Christine, if I may call you Christine. You see, each flower holds a meaning, and every time you are given a flower, the person who gives it to you usually wants to say something to you through a flower's petals. Have you ever been given a flower?"

Christine blushed. "I…Yes. A dark red rose."

"Oh! Lovely! By a man?"

"Y-yes…By a man."

"Now, if it was your brother, it doesn't count. He simply thought you might like it…But if it was not given to you by your kin…"

Geneviève smiled in delight. "The red damask roses mean that the person who gave it as a gift feels love, passion and respect for you. Such a gift equals the words 'I love you'. If you are given a single dark red rose, it means 'I will love you forever', and things become even more beautiful if the rose is thorn-less. This means that it was love at first sight and that it would never cease to throb in that person's veins."

Christine swallowed hard, consumed by the power of the words that Madame Geneviève produced in such a light-hearted manner. Christine's cheeks flushed and her heart started beating faster, so hard that she was sure Madame Geneviève could hear it pound in her chest wildly. He, her maestro, had always loved her…He told her he loved her, but only now did she realize the intensity and greatness of his emotions. She knew that his red roses held the meaning of powerful, eternal love, for everything he did had a meaning. He despised anything fickle in nature. He truly loved her…All those years, he had loved her in silence, perhaps hoping that she would come to understand his feelings for her through the silent speech of roses. Suddenly, she understood his rage when she promised to wed Raoul. Suddenly, it all became so clear. And suddenly, she began to miss him so much that the sensation almost choked her.

"Madame," she breathed, "suppose that you received a dark red rose, such as you described…And suppose that a black, silken ribbon was tied around its thorn-less stem…What would the meaning be then?"

Madame Geneviève frowned. "Well, I am not entirely sure. A black ribbon around a thorn-less stem, you say? The colour black is associated with many things, you see. Power, elegance, formality, death, evil, and mystery. But now we have to combine this with a ribbon and a dark red rose…Tell me, what is this person like?"

Christine winced and blushed. "Uh…I….Well, secretive. And mysterious. Very elegant and charming, with a passionate temper. People think of him as an evil man, but this is another mask he wears. I do not think he is evil. You see, he has a good heart, truly. But he has been very lonely…and," a tear crawled down her cheek against her will, "I suppose he only wants to be loved by the woman he loves."

Christine could hardly believe she spoke of such intimate things to a woman she had just met. And yet, Madame Geneviève was such a person that was in possession of the key to all secrets. So warm and motherly. Like Madame Giry.

Madame Geneviève nodded knowingly. "I see. Christine, this is a true situation, is it not?"

"I…I believe so, yes. I have been receiving such roses…from such a man…"

Oh, God, why did she reveal this?

"Well, Christine, then the answer is simple. This man wants you to accept him, as he is, evil or not. He wants your love. And, well, the black ribbon represents his hopes…and his determination to have you. With the black ribbon, he tells you that you are his, tied to him. He is the rose, you are the ribbon. Or vice versa, for that matter."

Christine was unbelievably grateful when Rosemonde interrupted the conversation by bringing a tray filled with tea cups and small cakes. Rosemonde sat down opposite to Christine and observed her with an intent gaze, as if trying to uncover Christine's secret thoughts. Christine shrank under her unpleasant, deep look, but she refused to show it. At least, Madame Geneviève seemed to forget about the strange conversation they had, even if Christine herself could not and never would.

_With the black ribbon, he tells you that you are his, tied to him,_ echoed in Christine's heart and her heart filled with dread and longing. She far from wished to be possessed, only to be loved in a pure, simple way. She was afraid of her mysterious friend's dark passion that she knew could consume her if he wished so. That frightened her; passion was a very strong emotion, a peculiar blend of love and lust, and she wanted to stay away from it. If she gave way to it, she would be forever lost and eternally possessed by the man whom she loved and feared in one. She was not yet ready to give herself to a man completely, especially to such a powerful man that her maestro was.

Christine shoved those thoughts away and she concentrated on the two women she had the chance to meet. Madame Geneviève was a very open, talkative woman, and soon, Christine learned all the basic information about the family that now lived in her father's old cottage. Fabien Pioche, Geneviève's husband and Rosemonde's father, was a doctor, very popular among his patients. He was a good man, kind and generous, and Christine suspected she could easily attribute the same features of character to the charming Madame Geneviève. Christine was told that the family had lived in Perros-Guirec for three years, but before they moved here, they lived in Paris. Fabien Pioche had worked in a Parisian hospital, but he did not like his work there. He had always dreamed about living somewhere in the magical Bretagne, taking care of his patients in a small town, or at least, smaller than Paris. So, they came to live in Perros-Guirec. Madame Geneviève proudly declared that she was a writer and quite a successful one. Christine was utterly surprised that Geneviève Pioche was the famous Madame Fortunée, the very popular writer of dark, mysterious love novels and poetry, and of Gothic short stories. Christine felt honoured to meet the great writer whom she, in all honesty, secretly adored. She also learnt that Rosemonde was not born deaf. When she was ten, she suffered from a severe inflammation of the ears. She was ill for a long time, but when she got better, she started losing her hearing, and Christine shed a few tears for her, such was her compassion.

Seeing Christine's tears of compassion, Rosemonde smiled widely and signed something with her fingers to her mother, and then again sent a beaming smile to Christine. Madame Geneviève said,

"Rosemonde says that you do not have to feel sad for her. She is very happy and she does not miss the sounds she once knew and loved. You see, Rosemonde accepted her fate and made the best of it. Without it, she would never be able to write such powerful and unique poetry. She, too, writes poetry, beautiful and potent, unique in style, for it rarely rhymes. She said that when you visit us again, she will show it to you, if that will be your wish."

"But of course!" Christine agreed happily.

When the women drank their tea, Geneviève and Rosemonde invited Christine to see the cottage. Geneviève was certain that Christine would like that and the young woman did not resist the kind invitation. As she saw the familiar rooms once again, she cried in silence, turning her face away from her hosts, so that they could not see the bitter-sweet tears wetting her cheeks. Christine told them how she spent her days in the cottage with her father, and she even mentioned Raoul, their picnics in the attic and all the adventures they shared together as children. Madame Geneviève and Rosemonde were very excited to hear such a wonderful tale of Christine's childhood and they insisted on taking her to the attic as well.

"We have not changed a thing in the attic," Geneviève spoke almost reverently. "I grew to love it so much, I did not have the heart to change a thing. It is perfect the way it is. I only dust it from time to time, and clean the two dormer windows. This is where I usually write. It is so peaceful and mysterious, wouldn't you say?"

Christine nodded emotionally as she climbed up the wooden stairs and opened the narrow door. She entered the attic slowly, taking in every single detail with much affection. The ghosts of the past resurrected before her eyes and danced around her, showing her the wonderful images of her childhood, of her father and of dear Raoul, her greatest friend. She walked to the dormer window overlooking the Cape of Knight Graelent, as the townspeople called it. There, on the cliff, stood a deserted château, sinister, daring and beautiful, timeless and lonely.

"Is the château still for sale?"

She whispered the question. She remembered how she and father, with Raoul in tow, would sneak into the castle and explore it. Raoul never liked the château much; he thought it was but a draughty house, too dark and cold for his taste, but he tried his best to keep Christine entertained. He was a very polite boy. But Christine loved to explore the old château. It held so many mysteries, and she wanted to unveil all of them. She pretended to be the lady of the castle. Oh, how fond she was of her childhood memories!

"Château d'Yquem?" Geneviève asked. "Oh, yes, it is still for sale. A few years ago, an English earl bought it, renovated it and modernized it. But his wife, unfortunately, could not stand it. She believed the legend that the château is haunted. Can you believe it?" she chuckled. "Haunted! Of course, the countess was very persistent and her husband sold it to a marquis from Nantes. The marquis furnished it well, but he soon decided Bretagne was not for him. The marquis put it to sale and we are still waiting for a new owner. The château hasn't had an owner in three years. Now, the local children play in it. Little imps! I have no idea how they get inside."

An "Oh…" was all Christine had to add. Then, her stomach growled and Madame Geneviève almost ordered her that she stay for lunch. Christine agreed and stayed for lunch, and she could finally meet Fabien Pioche, the husband and father. He was very similar to his wife in nature, for he, too, was very talkative and kind. But she also learnt useful information from him when he said,

"Once a month I go to Paris, to purchase certain medicaments and other things a doctor needs. I am going there tomorrow, actually."

With this simple utterance, he solved Christine's greatest problem at the moment – how could she send a letter to Madame Giry, so that only Madame could receive it and no one else? It could easily fall into the hands of the Phantom, that is, her mysterious friend; or the managers or any other person. Now, she could ask Monsieur Pioche if he would perform the role of the messenger she so urgently needed. She shyly asked him for this favour and he accepted the task gladly.

Thus, Christine left the Pioche family to write a letter for Madame Giry.

She wrote,

_My dear Madame Giry,_

_I wished to tell You that I am well. I decided to visit Perros-Guirec and I am going stay here for an indefinite period. I am very happy here. I do miss You and Meg very much, but you know that my absence is for the best. I dearly hope that my departure and absence have ameliorated the tense situation that came to exist solely because of me. Please, inform Raoul that I am well, but I ask you, do not tell him, or anyone else, of my current whereabouts. I must be alone, I wish to be alone. But, if Raoul asks you of my intentions…Tell him that I am a wicked woman, for I firmly decided that I can never become his wife. I will always love him, but as a sister and a friend. We shall meet when I am ready, but until then, I think it is best that he knows of my decision. He deserves to be with a woman far better than myself. I cannot bring him the happiness and love he craves for._

_As for the Phantom…I do not know what to write. Perhaps only that I keep him in my prayers…_

_I enclose the address to which you can send me Your letters. I cannot wait to hear from you._

_Yours, Christine._

As Christine sealed the letter, she burst into a fit of convulsive sobbing. She felt such guilt for hurting Raoul, and at the same time, such love and longing for the man who perhaps did not deserve it. She believed herself to be a deceitful, wicked woman, and yet, what she did was for the best. She violently wiped the tears from her cheeks and took the letter to Fabien Pioche. When she returned to her room at the inn, she sat down in a chair before the sole window in her room and stared through the glass for a long time, until the light of the Sun was extinguished to be replaced by the light of stars. Her thoughts were vacant, and she liked it so. She hadn't thought about nothing in a very long time. Finally, she went to bed and fell asleep immediately. She dreamed about a man with a white mask, holding her hands and singing to her with the most beautiful and enchanting voice she had ever heard in her life. She heard his music in her sleep and she smiled.

* * *

NotaBene: The Cape of Knight Graelent doesn't exist, at least not to my knowledge. I simply invented it, but the Knight Graelent is an actual figure in Breton tales and legends.

Chateau d'Yquem is an actual castle/manor in France, the Sauternes region, in the southern part of the Bordeaux vineyards. I wanted to give "my invented castle" a good, realistic name, and as I couldn't come up with a really good idea, I opted for the name d'Yquem. (P.S. The actual castle is very beautiful and has an interesting history).

Madame Pioche talks about the roses she grows. All roses are actual roses; the names are not my invention.

That's it. Have fun!


	6. The Phantom's Epiphany

_CHAPTER 6: The Phantom's Epiphany_

Two weeks had passed since the departure of Christine Daaé. Yet, life at the Opera Populaire continued as if she had never left. At first, the managers, Messieurs Richard Firmin and Giles Andre, were very much perturbed by her absence, but after a few days, they accepted her nonappearance in their lives. The notorious opera _Don Juan Triumphant_, however, remained, just as the Opera Ghost still lingered in every corner of the grand opera house, and his opera continued to be rehearsed. The leading role of Aminta was appointed to La Carlotta for the time being and, curiously, no letter with a red seal with the image of a leering skull had arrived to complain about the managers' decision. Only once, when they discussed in the privacy of their office the possibility of removing the Phantom's opera from the program, did such a letter come, briskly informing the managers that such a thing should not occur, or another disaster beyond their imaginations would come to life. Apart from this incident, there was no sign that could confirm the existence of the Opera Ghost. He seemed to have disappeared into obscurity; only his spirit could be felt by sensible human beings who could still sense a restless malice hovering above their heads.

Eléonore Giry had changed. Her face was pale and wan. She was still a stern lady, a fearsome, but wonderful ballet mistress; yet, her heart of a mother would not let her soul rest. Her child, Meg, was with her, trying to soothe her at all times. But her other child, the one she adopted when the poor creature lost her father, was away and she had not heard from her in two weeks. One day, however, the long-awaited letter from Christine finally arrived. It was brought to Madame Giry by a monsieur Fabien Pioche. He was a stranger to her when she first saw him standing in the grand foyer, awaiting her arrival, but he soon became her beloved friend as he told her about his acquaintance with Christine Daaé. Madame Giry absorbed his every word about Christine like a mushroom absorbs every drop of water.

"So, monsieur, my Christine is safe and well?" she asked fervently.

"Oh, yes, quite well, I assure you. She is staying at the inn _Three Deers _in Perros-Guirec and my wife and daughter are her friends. They seem to spend many happy moments together. Indeed, you have no need to fear for her, Madame Giry. She asked me to deliver this letter to you. You should write a reply to her today. I shall come back in the evening, to take the letter you will have written. It seems Mademoiselle Christine is a very careful young lady. Is there, perhaps, a reason why she is so careful?"

Madame Giry frowned indignantly at the man's curiosity. Obviously, Christine had told nothing to his family, and thus it would remain. The ballet mistress's lips were sealed.

"Of course not, monsieur. It is as you suspected it, my daughter is a very careful young lady. She does not trust the post. Thank you for bringing her letter to me. I shall give you my reply in the evening. Au revoir, monsieur Pioche."

And so, Madame Giry dismissed Fabien Pioche. As soon as he disappeared from the grand foyer, she ran to her room and broke the seal. A tear of joy slid down her cheek as she saw Christine's handwriting. Of course, Christine returned to the place where she spent her childhood! It was only natural that she should go to Perros-Guirec. She was happy to read Christine's words, but there was a passage that disturbed her.

_But, if Raoul asks you about my intentions…Tell him that I am a wicked woman, for I firmly decided that I can never become his wife. I will always love him, but as a sister and a friend. We shall meet when I am ready, but until then, I think it is best that he knows my decision. He deserves to be with a woman far better than myself. I cannot bring him the happiness and love he craves for._

In all honesty, Madame Giry believed that Christine's decision to end the engagement was a wise one, as Eléonore Giry had suspected for some time that Christine's love for Raoul was that of a sister for her brother, and that any ideas about a romantic liaison with the handsome viscount were born on a night of fear and a need to feel safe and warm at heart. But oh, what an ungrateful task lay before Madame Giry! She was to tell Raoul de Chagny that there was no hope for him, and she hated to be the bearer of such dreadful news that should be told to Raoul by Christine, in person. Still, what had to be done would be done. She only hoped that the young man's heart would not break beyond repair…She liked the viscount, as he was a charming, good man.

There was another sentence that coaxed Madame Giry to ponder on.

_As for the Phantom…I do not know what to write. Perhaps only that I keep him in my prayers…_

What was the nature of Christine's feelings for the Phantom, truly? Madame Giry sighed and folded the letter back into its original form when, completely unexpectedly, the door to her room was loudly opened and a cloaked figure entered. A gloved hand turned the key in the lock and a bleak masked face confronted her. If the face was bleak and pale from many sleepless nights, the intruder's eyes were certainly not. They were alive with fire of strong emotions boiling in his soul. His eyes always seemed incredibly alive.

"Erik!" Madame Giry exclaimed angrily and shoved the letter in the pocket of her dress. "How dare you enter my room without my invitation? And you nincompoop, someone might have seen you!"

"No one saw me," he spoke evenly, but his voice still held some of its usual satiny allure. He, then, sauntered to Madame Giry and pierced her eyes with his ardent gaze.

"Madame Giry, you know that I am the Opera Ghost. I can roam this kingdom of music whenever I please, without being seen or heard."

"I am aware of the fact, yes. Now, Erik, why are you telling me this nonsense?"

He let out a guttural chuckle. It was not pleasant to her, as it resonated very sinisterly behind Madame Giry's back. She cringed a little, but she would not let Erik see that. She was older than him, she raised him and she deserved his respect.

"The reason is simple, Madame," he continued. "I heard your lovely conversation with that Fabien Pioche from Perros-Guirec. I know now where Christine is hiding."

Madame Giry gasped for air and sat down on her bed. Her cheeks grew pale and she looked at Erik hovering above her with despair in her eyes.

"No, Erik, you must _not _go to Perros-Guirec."

"No, Madame, this is precisely my intention. I will go to Perros-Guirec and Christine and I shall be reunited. I came to see you because I need you to purchase a train ticket for me. Also, I need you to tell me what you know about Perros-Guirec."

"_Reunited?_" Madame Giry asked in shock. "She was never yours, Erik, and I will not allow you to have her! Not like this! You played with her will, you deceived her, you twisted the poor girl's mind! Will you do this again? Is this what she deserves? Have you ever _looked _into her eyes? Obviously not! There was pain in them, confusion and great sorrow! She was on the very verge of losing her sanity. I am certain that had she stayed here, she would be lying sick in her bed now, wishing to die, because her sanity would finally begin to leave her head. Is this what Christine deserves? Is this what Gustave Daaé deserves, after you gave him your promise, your _solemn vow_ to _always_ protect her? You failed in your duty, Erik. You failed. There _is _still time to make amends, however."

Madame Giry's angry speech touched Erik's heart. No, it did not touch him, it stroke him hard. The sound of guilt struck his ears after a long time. He had not felt guilt ever since the evening Christine heard his voice for the first time, believing it to be the voice of her Angel of Music sent to her by her dead father. On that evening, he felt guilty, but he himself was a believer as well, like Christine – he believed that it was the way to help the little girl sobbing on the ground of the opera chapel, weeping for her father, feeling forlorn and desolate. He never thought he would ever come to love her deeply, love her too much, love her beyond the limits of common sense and reason. Very soon, he came to love her and he became obsessed with her. How could he not be? She was so beautiful, so angelic, so pure. She was his muse, his hope, his light and his salvation. She was enamored with his voice and music. He knew that he would like her to love Erik, too, not only his voice, but unfortunately, he also knew she would come to fear Erik once she saw his face. He was right…Yet, he was a believer – he believed that her fear would once turn to love and that she would learn to see the _man_ behind the monster with the face of a gargoyle. He needed to posses her, her soul, her heart, her mind, her…her body. He cared not about Madame Giry's reproaches. He had loved Christine for ten years and she was under his spell. But now, Eléonore Giry mentioned Gustave Daaé.

Gustave Daaé…

He remembered Gustave Daaé, it was high time he had remembered him. So very long ago, when Erik was twenty years of age, unaware of his dark future and of the Phantom of the Opera, a new musician – a violinist – joined the orchestra of the Opera Populaire. Erik observed his playing from the shadows and grew to admire the man's beautiful, heartfelt music and technique. On one beautiful autumn evening, as the silver moon was full and the air still warm, Erik went to the roof of the opera house to observe the stars and to rejoice in their beauty. He brought his violin with him and he began to play an intricate improvisation of a little something he had composed that morning. When he was finished, a pair of hands applauded him! He was beside himself. He was not aware of another presence on the roof, and above all, he was discovered. After many successful years of remaining hidden and non-existent, his love for music and beautiful nights betrayed him.

"Have no fear," a male voice spoke. It was the violinist, Gustave Daaé! "I apologize for having startled you, young man. I came to smoke to the roof. A very bad habit of mine, I say. But I am, at the moment, grateful to be cursed with this terrible habit. I vow, I had never heard such beautiful playing in my life. Please, would you honour me by accepting to play a duet with me?"

Erik was so taken aback that he could not think. If only he was invisible!

But he spoke, "I…Monsieur…That is to say….Y-yes, _I _would be honoured. But please, promise me you will not ask questions. No one knows about me. I live in the opera house, hidden…Please, no questions."

"Of course, young man, I swear it upon my honour."

And so, they played a wonderful duet. Erik still remembered it was Bach's _Concerto in D Minor, _the _Largo man on tanto_ part of the composition. On that night, music bound him to the violinist and they became friends. They met on the roof often, they played duets together, they practiced together. Gustave Daaé would tell Erik tales about Sweden, how he left the country when his wife died and how he and his daughter Christine finally settled in Paris. Erik was not particularly interested in the child. He noticed her beauty and sweetness, but she was merely a child. He cared about music. Besides, he did not see Christine much. She spent many months in Perros-Guirec with Gustave's widowed sister, Madame Valerious. Gustave would visit them whenever he could, and his sister would bring the child to him every month. So, the years passed pleasantly. Erik was not lonely and bitter anymore, for he had a true musician for a friend. One day, Gustave told him,

"Erik, I am ill. I have consumption. I…Soon, I will die. I have tried to hide the illness from you, but I cannot anymore. I have decided to retreat to Perros-Guirec, to spend the remaining time with my daughter. My sister will return to Sweden."

Gustave would write to him to Paris every week, but Erik knew he lost a friend. For five years, Gustave Daaé had been his friend, and then, it was God's terrible will to take Gustave from Erik. A year passed, the letters from Gustave started to come infrequently, and then, on a beautiful spring day, Gustave Daaé's final letter came.

_Erik!_

_As I am writing this letter to you, my poor child is kneeling beside my bed, telling her beads reverently, believing that I will be well soon. But I can feel life leaving me. I do not wish to die. My child needs me. She is only ten years of age, she needs me. And you, my friend…I do not wish to leave you as well. You have become my truest friend. You shall become a great musician one day. People will swoon at your feet, for your music is ethereal and it comes from your heart. I have a dying wish. No, I have three. Do indulge this dying body, will you? One is that you become a famous musician, respected and widely known. Do not hide anymore. Remember my words: Your face and your mask do not define you. Once, you told me you felt like Quasimodo from Hugo's novel: only half made. It is not true, you are perfect. If you appreciate yourself and show it, people will appreciate you in return. If you hate yourself and show it, people will despise you. That is what I have learned in my life._

_My other wish concerns my funeral. I want you to be present at my funeral. I know that you are not yet ready to show yourself to others, and I am decided to respect that. When all the mourners have departed, wait at my grave with good Madame Giry, who is also your friend. As you know, I have always loved that "Godon" (as you as a good patriot call the English), Henry Purcell. Play for me his beautiful _Suite_ from the _Fairy Queen. _I want joyful music to be performed at my funeral. I shall haunt you until the day you die if you break this promise. (I am laughing, trust me.)_

_The last wish…Oh, Erik, my last wish is for my child…Do you remember my tale about the Angel of Music? I confess: I believe in the Angel of Music. He never came to me. I still hope His voice will be the last thing I hear before I die…My daughter Christine believes in the Angel of Music fervently. I have my doubts about His arrival to my Christine. But, when she comes of age that is appropriate for a singer to start his or her career (around 14 or 15, yes?), I would like you to present yourself to her. She does not know about you, but tell her I was your friend and she will understand. Erik, be her music teacher. Make her a star. This is my last wish…Yesterday, I told my Christine: When I am in Heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you. That lifted her spirits. I know she will find that Angel in you._

_I cannot write anymore. My time is coming. Madame Giry is with me. She will give you the letter. She gave me her word – she will raise Christine. You see, yesterday, a letter came to me, informing me that my dear sister, Agata Valerious, passed away. Consumption took her, as it will take me. How ironic, is it not? _

_Madame Giry will introduce Christine to you one day. I am certain you two will go along well. I will be buried in Paris, I fear…At Père-Lachaise, where so many famous bodies are buried. Be there._

_Gustave Daaé_

Erik kept only one promise - he played the _Suite_ from the _Fairy Queen_. The other promises went awry, and he was to blame. He was to blame…

"Erik?"

Madame Giry's voice startled him and brought him back to reality. He blinked nervously and looked at her, feeling immensely distressed. He had just experienced a cold, bitter epiphany. Madame Giry was right and he managed to tell her that.

"But, I _need_ to see her! I _deserve_ one last chance, Madame. I wish to woo her, properly, and only when I hear her say she will not have me, I will retreat. I…I promise. And this time, I do not intend to break this promise. I wish to make amends. I love her. She bewitched me long ago, soul and body. Do I not deserve to make things right and court her as the man that I am, not as the Opera Ghost she fears?"

Madame Giry knew she was touched by Erik's plight and that she would help him. She knew she should not, but she knew just as well that she would, for she wished him to be happy and she believed Christine Daaé was his salvation. She had a memory that only she knew of. Before he died, Gustave Daaé told her: "I hope that, once Erik becomes Christine's teacher, they will fall in love and marry. I would not want anyone else to have my Christine, Eléonore. No soul will be able to truly understand her and appreciate her as, I am certain, Erik one day will. He is only fifteen years older than her. Help them see love, will you not, Eléonore?"

Perhaps, it was time she had helped Erik. Perhaps, Erik did deserve this chance. Christine's love and purity would help him achieve God's redemption for his sins. Yes, she would help them.

That evening, Madame Giry met Fabien Pioche once more. She gave him her letter to Christine and politely questioned him about Perros-Guirec. She received very useful information. As she met Erik on the roof of the opera house, she told him everything she knew.

* * *

Christine sighed sadly. She had been staying at the inn _Three Deers _for four weeks now, and she realized she had only two francs left. Now she had to decide – would she leave Perros-Guirec and return to Paris, or would she ask the inn-keeper to employ her? She chose the latter option. She told the inn-keeper of her predicament and he gladly employed her. She moved out of her room and settled in an attic room. The attic was meant for servants. The inn-keeper, however, had grown very fond of Christine Daaé and he was sad to see her trying to play the role of a kitchen maid on her first day of work. Such a delicate creature deserved better. He knew that Geneviève Pioche had come to love Christine Daaé very much. They saw each other every day, and Christine already practically lived at L'Œillet. So, he consulted Geneviève Pioche. She was a bit angry that Christine did not tell her about her money problems. But she knew Christine was a decent and honest girl, proud as well. So Geneviève had an idea. She employed Christine as her 'writer'. Geneviève suffered from rheumatism and could not always write. Thus, Christine went to live at L'Œillet. She was paid handsomely, she had her own room, food on the table and good friends. Geneviève liked to say that she did not employ Christine, but adopted her. And truth be told, that was exactly what she did. Christine was now safe and was freed of any worries about her future.

One day, when Geneviève Pioche was narrating her newest Gothic novel to her and Christine was busy writing it down (which she loved to do), Fabien Pioche walked into his wife's writing parlour in the attic and told them the great news of the week.

"Château d'Yquem finally has an owner! The mayor's wife told me that a gentleman from Paris, a monsieur Broussard, bought the château. Come, look through the window. Can you see those three people? They are his servants, preparing the château for his arrival."

Christine and Geneviève looked out the window, and then at each other. They smiled. In wonder, all three observed as a beautiful sable-black short grand piano was lifted into the air and pulled through two widely open French windows on the second floor of the château.

"I cannot wait to see the owner!" exclaimed Geneviève. "He must be filthy rich and possibly very handsome. Fabien, do you know the date of his arrival to our town?"

"Supposedly, he shall arrive in a week's time."

"I hope he is a bachelor and young. Such a man would be a fine match for my Rosemonde or our beautiful Christine."

Christine only blushed in an intense hue of carmine. She did find the whole event rather exciting, however, and she awaited the mysterious man's arrival just as the whole town did.


	7. The Return of Music

_CHAPTER 7: The Return of Music_

Christine was sitting in a window alcove in the attic of her new home that was quite truly her old home. She was enjoying her peace and solitude in her private corner behind the curtains she had drawn together to hide herself from the rest of the house, her brow resting against the pane of the sash window. Her hair were loose, freed of any ribbons or hairpins, the dark brown curls of her rich mane sleeping on her calmly heaving shoulders. She appeared to be observing the world outside, the pale bowl that was the sun veiled by the thick, heavy fog stubbornly persisting in the winter air. But she cared little for the winter nature, for the late afternoon atmosphere, or for the fragrant smells of _cotriade _that Madame Génevieve was preparing together with Rosemonde.

Earlier that day, Christine had pleaded fatigue and mentioned a possible eruption of a headache. She had felt a burning feeling in her stomach, a sensation of strange knowing and longing, and she was so confused she had to retreat into solitude and think. When she was too tired to think, she resorted to philosophical reading. In truth, Christine was in a very pensive mood. She had just finished the last chapter of Rousseau's novel _Julie, or the New Heloise _and was quite overwhelmed by its contents.

She could hardly believe the effect the book had on her soul. No, it was past weeping. A sharp pain convulsed her. Her heart was almost crushed by the story of a woman who was just a figment of one's imagination, a mere image to help the great philosopher to convey his thoughts to the world. Julie dying was no longer an unknown person. Christine believed she was her sister, her friend, her Claire. Her seizure had grown so strong that if she had not put the book away she would have been as ill as all those who attended that virtuous woman in her last moments. But Christine's compassion was superficial. It was a cover for something else. Julie's remarkable, yet tragic story teased to the surface a strong longing that had been sleeping inside Christine since the day she left Paris. On that day, she did not only turn her back to the opera house and, in particular, to two men who possessed her heart, each of them in a different manner. No, she also turned her face away from music.

Music was the fundamental element of her being. Without it, she was a dead creature, like a shell from the Pacific that looked beautiful on the outside, but was really empty on the inside, lacking the perfect white pearl that was its core. Without the pearl, the shell was empty, it was nothing. Christine lost her own pearl – music. She had not heard music for so long, and she herself had not created music with her voice for such an endless period of time, that she started to feel old and grey. All her inspiration was gone and her days turned into shadows and ghosts of her past. Even living in Perros-Guirec, the cradle of her childhood, became redundant to her and did not bring her any joy. Her heart and her mind were in Paris, with the man that was music and her muse. Her Angel was music, and music was her Angel. They were inseparable in her mind and she could not truly exist without them.

She sought solace in Perros-Guirec only to be tormented more than ever. She was haunted by a strong yearning that was beyond her.

"Oh, why do I love you so much? _Why_ do I love you, and _why_ so much?" she breathed against the window pane, befogging it with her breath. A tear slid down her alabaster cheek and she did not bother to wipe it away. Her heart was in turmoil and her soul was crying for help.

Then, she heard the distant tolling of the bells of the church of Saint Columba the Virgin. They announced that vespers would take place in an hour's time. Christine liked to attend the vespers, not so much for its religious purpose, but for the fact that the organist who played on the pipe organ created something that was similar to music she loved. During vespers, she was connected to him, her Angel and love, her tormentor and her joy. But on this late afternoon that had turned into an early eve, Christine needed religious solace and she could not wait any longer for the vespers to begin. She drew apart the window curtains hastily, jumped from the window sill and blew out the candles she had lit to illuminate the attic. Then, she put on her old cloak, wrapped her black shawl over her curls and, with a prayer book in her hand and the beads in the pocket of her gown, she left the attic and the cottage without informing the Pioches of her intentions. A twinge of guilt passed her heart as she looked over her shoulder through the window and saw mother and daughter prepare Christine's favourite food, to cheer her up, but she turned her face away from them.

She ran through the ancient streets of Perros-Guirec against the wind, the chilly breeze slapping her cheeks with its icy hands. Some of the townspeople bade her a good evening, but she barely replied, which surprised them all. They were not accustomed to such behaviour performed by such a beautiful, good woman that Christine Daaé was. They were puzzled, but they were also forgetful and did not dwell on it long.

Finally, Christine arrived at the church. She opened the massive gates, carved with images of various Breton saints, and stepped into the empty, silent space that spread before her. Immediately, she was enveloped by darkness and the scent of one burning candle on the altar, along with the ever-present mystical smell of incense. She did not run down the aisle, to fall on the prie-dieu before the altar, as was her initial intention. She took small, slow, deliberate steps towards the altar, her mind filled with music, not with God. She stopped mid-way and closed her eyes, allowing the spirit of music that reverberated in her mind to take hold of her and play melodies around her. She relaxed and smiled, for she heard the murmuring sounds of violins and cellos awaken about her trembling frame. The murmurs grew louder and louder, until they reached a painful forte. Then, the murmurs retreated into mere whispers and a woman's voice soared above them in a new, improvised melody, the words she sang telling tales of the sea, the wild wind and two hearts filled with love and passion. Christine realized that the woman's voice was not a part of her imagination, as were the violins and the cellos. It was she who sang. She sang! After such a long time without music, she sang and wept at the same time, for joy and for pain that she felt.

Suddenly, Christine felt another person's presence behind her and her heart began to beat faster. She turned around with a wince and tried to discern the person's identity. It was clearly a man, judging from the strong frame and height, but he was only a black silhouette standing in the bright winter light, positioned on the threshold of the church. Then, he began to move, his black cape billowing behind him like a banner. As he walked, he made no sound; he moved as gracefully and as silently as a cat. Christine furrowed her brow, wondering which of the townsmen he was. Then, the shadows left the man and his face showed itself to her. Christine's heart skipped a beat and the world around her froze into one long moment of soundlessly gazing in the aquamarine orbs of her teacher's eyes. _He_ was there…_He_ found her…

"Oh my God…" she breathed. Her lips trembled, her body wavered and she began to slip from the holds of consciousness. But she did not fall, his arms caught her and carried her to the nearest pew into which he sat her, as gently as a father would his precious child. His glowed fingers removed the curls from her alabaster cheeks, now even more colourless than they usually were, and he smiled ever so lightly when she, at last, opened her eyes and widened them at another sight of him.

"Oh, can it be? Are you real?" she asked him softly, frightened and feebly excited at the same moment of her existence. A tear slid down her chin, falling onto his gloved fingers. He stared at the liquid pearl glistening on the black leather, while she wondered what she truly felt at the moment.

"You know, Christine, that I am no ghost. Only a man, I fear, only a man…" he spoke, his rich velvet baritone caressing her ears like a warm breeze from the sea. She gaped at him in awe and disbelief.

"You found me. Madame Giry told you." Her words were a statement, not an accusation.

"Does this displease you?" he asked, hoping against all hope she was not displeased with his presence.

"I…I do not know. I have so much to say, but so little will to say it. I do not even know your name!"

"It is Erik," he answered promptly and stepped back, ready to leave her alone. Clearly, she was too confused to see him again. He never imagined her running into his arms, happy to see him after such a long absence, but he hoped…He always seemed to hope. Seeing him leave, Christine panicked.

"No, do not leave! Stay! Erik…"

It was the first time she spoke his name and it sounded so natural from her lips; Erik felt blessed to be the bearer of that name. He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Yes?" he asked simply.

"Please, Erik, promise me you are not here to claim me by force. Do not threaten me to give you my love. I fear…I still fear…"

Erik sighed deeply. "I am here as Erik, only as Erik. Not as the Phantom, or some Angel of Music."

He lied, he lied to not scare her away, he lied to conceal his anger. She was not willing to love him, not now, nor ever. But he would try, he would try, he would always try. Upon seeing her precious face, her beautiful eyes, her full lips, her pearly teeth, her rich curls, her everything, his heart cried _Love me, Christine, please, love me._

"Come," he beckoned her, "let us go and speak of what you wish to say to me. There is a private dinner room at the inn…I…I dislike the crowds."

She smiled, lightly, without fear. "Why, Erik, we can stay here, in the silent privacy of this church. I can assure you, no one will come as of yet, we have much time. You…you will not have to face the crowds. Come, sit by my side. Please…"

Uncertainly, he descended into the pew where she sat. As he joined her, she rested her small palm on his arm and looked at the statue of Saint Columba the Virgin gracing a chapel on their left. He followed her gaze, leaning forward an inch to see the object of her interest, but as he leant forward, she turned her head towards him, making their noses brush against each other. Too shocked to react, none of them dared to move.

"Erik, one more promise…" Christine whispered against his chin, trembling. "Please, do not take me with your music. My heart could not bear it."

Saying this, she lowered her head and leant her forehead against his chin, feeling how his heart pounded in his chest like the wild grey waves of Brittany beat the pink granite shores. She smiled, for her heart was in the same state. Suddenly, she felt at peace and even felt a twinge of guilt for asking Erik to not make music. He said nothing, he simply sat there, his body stiff and surprised that an angel like Christine would dare lean against him so freely, so carelessly, so…familiarly, as if she had always belonged in the cradle of his arms.


	8. Days of Regrets

_CHAPTER 8: Days of Regrets_

"_Erik, one more promise…" Christine whispered against his chin, trembling. "Please, do not take me with your music. My heart could not bear it."_

_Saying this, she lowered her head and leant her forehead against his chin, feeling how his heart pounded in his chest like the wild grey waves of Brittany beat the pink granite shores. She smiled, for her heart was in the same state. Suddenly, she felt at peace and even felt a twinge of guilt for asking Erik to not make music. He said nothing, he simply sat there, his body stiff and surprised that an angel like Christine would dare lean against him so freely, so carelessly, so…familiarly, as if she had always belonged to the cradle of his arms._

So, they sat in silence for a few moments, Christine resting against Erik's chest, with him feeling too shocked and elated by her touch to return it, even if with a simplest caress. He had dreamed for so long to have her in his arms like this. In his dreams, no, fantasies, she was his wife, and as his wife, he took her out on Sundays, to a park where she fed the ducks and he observed her with pride and love. Then, she would look at him and smile, his wife, in his dream…

She was a free bird, he finally realized. On the way to Perros-Guirec, he was making plans about how to woo her in his manner, to attract her back to his side and keep her. But, upon seeing her again, so innocent and so beautiful in the peaceful solace of the church, gently pleading him not to claim her by force, he realized she was a free bird. _She _needed to make her choice, he could not do it for her, _would _not do it for her, not anymore. Finally, he saw sense. Christine's letter on the day she left, Madame Giry's wise words, his own memories of Gustave Daaé, and Christine herself, helped him made sense. Despite the agony his heart had to endure, he had to be patient and just. He knew that he had to let her go if he wished to have her.

Finally, he prompted himself to speak. As much as he enjoyed having Christine in his arms, there were many things he needed to say to her, many questions he would need to answer; for he was certain Christine would ask questions. She had always been curious. He gently pushed her away, ignoring her puzzled eyes, and said, "We must speak."

She nodded. "Yes…We must speak. I have questions that need answers…"

He smiled almost imperceptibly. "I have guessed that much…Christine, I shall be blunt. I came to find you to make amends…for my past behaviour and in hope…in hope…"

"In hope?"

"In hope to be allowed to…woo you."

He continued swiftly, before she could interrupt him. He knew he could only say this once and never again. "Please, do not fear me," he said, looking her in the eyes, which she lowered, "I did not come to harm you. I know this is hard to believe because some time ago, I did harm you. However, I only wish to be understood by you…and be given a chance, to…take you for a walk sometimes, to invite you to a dinner, to play the piano for you and have you sing your favourite songs…Not every day, just, occasionally…And, if in time, you still can't see me as…a significant part of your life, I will be gone for good. I give you my solemn oath, my most solemn oath, Christine."

She lifted her gaze and gasped. With her fingers, she touched his arm, shaking her head nervously.

"Erik, no matter what, I do not want you to ever leave me! You obviously don't understand, but you _are _a significant part of my life! You have been my teacher, my mentor, my _friend, _for ten years. I accept your offer. I would _like_ to take a walk with you, not just one, but many, to come to know you better. I have known you only as my Angel of Music and as the Opera Ghost. I'd like to know _you, _to prove to you and myself that you are not bad."

"Christine," he whispered, "I would do…_anything_, to convince you that I am not so bad. I have sinned, but I'm willing to repent…for you."

She blushed in shame. "Oh, Erik, I did not mean to say you were, or are, bad. You are not! Erik, you are my Angel," she smiled, "my Angel of Music…And I mean it when I say this. But…"

She averted her gaze. "But, in the past, you forced me…you forced me to do things I did not wish to do…You frightened me…I do not wish to fear you…I do not fear you anymore, and I do not wish to fear you again. I was scared because you were such a mystery to me, an unknown force, a force too great for my understanding…Also, you were the Phantom, the man all either feared or loathed…But not anymore. I have learnt to see more of you. And I wish to make sure that I saw, that I _see_ right."

Erik let out a deep, shaky sigh. Her honest words disturbed him and puzzled him; they made him feel naked and powerless before her, and at the same time his heart throbbed in glee to hear that she did not think him bad or evil, that, in fact, she wished to know him. Although perturbed, he was content. Yet, could he keep his promise if she didn't love him in the end? Could he ever endure it…He would have to, he must, he must suppress the obsession of the Phantom…Oh, would she ever love him as a man, or would he remain her teacher for all eternity? He did not want to just teach her and be her confidant for the rest of his life. He wished to love her, to possess her, as a woman, as his wife, to be able to speak of his love to her without making her shrink in disgust, discomfort, or fear. Or all three! Victor Hugo's Esmeralda accepted Quasimodo and held his friendship, but did she ever _love _him? She did not. Therefore, did he, Erik, have a chance? If he did not, he would leave Christine's life and die in solitude. She was the only element in his heart. Without that element, his heart could not beat.

As if sensing his distress, Christine spoke, "Erik, I said something that you do not like. I am sorry…"

"No, you did not," he replied. It was a little, harmless lie because he tried to control himself. "I am very…content with your reply and I wish for nothing more than for your understanding and acceptance."

Christine knew he wished to have her love as well, but she dared not open this subject just yet. There was so much to say, so much to clarify, before they could address the topic of his love for her. She fervently wished he would know she loved him as much as he loved her, but somehow, making him know the truth did not feel right yet. Honestly, she liked the idea that they would be spending time together, not as a voice and a student, not as a prima donna and a ghost, but as Christine and Erik. She had dreamed of such moments and now they finally came. She had no intention of letting them slip away. She was looking forward to wandering around Perros-Guirec with Erik and be his friend at last.

"Where are you staying?" she asked him politely. "At the _Three Deers_?"

"I…Christine, I am the famous monsieur Broussard, who finally purchased Château d'Yquem."

"_You_?" she asked in disbelief. "How…why…"

"How? I can answer this easily. I have enough money…more than enough money. All of it is not honest money, I confess, half of my capital comes from my…salaries, given to me by the previous manager, monsieur Lefevre. But, I have always known I did not wish to rely on those salaries and my criminal behaviour. I thought at that time that the…extortions were necessary."

"I know about the salaries…" she replied.

"And disapprove," he finished for her, his soul experiencing all possible emotions, from shame and hatred for himself, to slight anger and the wish to be understood.

"Of course I disapprove! Would you respect me if I supported you in this?"

_Smart girl she is, _he thought. She was right; although he wished to be understood, he also wished for her honesty. Understanding and honesty were friends.

"Yes, Erik, I disapprove. That was badly done. But…God help me, I understand. Back then, you saw no other way to earn money. You believed you would not be accepted as a musician because of your face and this belief was so strong, you did not even _try_ to sell any of your works. However, if you stop this behaviour, these extortions, and try to repay poor monsieur Lefevre somehow, I am willing to forget such a thing ever happened."

She really could _see _him, Erik thought. When had she begun to understand him so well?

"I know, Christine…I am willing to stop, I already did, months ago, although not by my own will…But I am happy this is so. As for repaying poor, guiltless Lefevre, I trust that one day, I will find a way to do so. Such is my intention."

"It is?" she asked him hopefully and upon receiving an affirmative response, she nodded proudly, feeling like crying from joy. That was a big step forward for them both. She wanted Erik to be happy and free, and he could not be so until he was burdened in any way. She knew she loved him as he was, with his burdens, flaws and whims, but because she loved him, she wanted him to be happy.

"Erik, what about the other half of your capital?"

He smiled. "Good Madame Giry often acted as my go-between. She invested my money in my name. With her help, I have made good business investments that made me a…Well, a rich man. This is my good, honest money."

"And your name? Broussard is your family name?"

Erik's face clouded and Christine knew she asked a wrong question, but to her and his surprise, he answered it nonetheless.

"I named myself…years ago."

For Christine, this was a good enough answer. It filled her with sorrow because short as it was, it spoke of his grief, suffering and resentment, but she also knew that the time had not yet come for Erik to be open about his past. She had to accept this.

"Erik," she almost whispered. "Why did you buy Château d'Yquem of all places?"

He lowered his gaze. "It may not seem so at a first glance, but I wished to have a real home, away from the opera house, from all the bad memories, and…to be near you. I wished to be near you. And you know that you do not have to be near me. It is your choice to deny me…But, in case you ever wished…to be near me…I wanted to be able to offer you a home."

A tear slid down Christine's cheek. She wished to tell him, _I wish to be near you, Erik, in the way you wish me to be near you. _But she did not tell him that, she remained quiet, thinking, _Thank you, Erik, for loving me so much. _

The first visitor to the church entered the place and Christine, knowing Erik did not relish the idea of being observed by strangers, took him by his hands and led him out of the church, into the darkness of the cold winter evening. They walked silently until they reached a crossroads, one path leading to the Pioches' home, the other to Château d'Yquem. There, Christine stopped. She looked Erik in the eyes, never letting go of his hands.

"Erik, I must go now. I am staying with a family, the Pioches, and I do not wish them to be worried."

He nodded. "Of course." He let go of her hands, sensing the raw solitude as he broke their touch, and said, "I bid you a good night, Christine."

He turned around, ready to leave her, but she stopped him, grabbing him by his arm. "Erik…."

He turned around, facing her. "Yes?"

It seemed she wanted to say something very important to him, but she changed her mind and said, "Can I come to you tomorrow morning, for a visit, to see your home and….such things? Around ten, perhaps?"

He nodded an affirmative response, which brought a pleased smile to her lips. She bid him a good night and left him. He observed her retreating frame until she completely disappeared into the shadows of the evening. Then, he heaved a shaky sigh and headed towards his new home. He could think of nothing else but of tomorrow when she would come for a visit, completely by her own free will. What joy! He also regretted one thing: he did not give her a kiss for good night on her brow. He would have liked that, but perhaps it would have frightened her. So again, he was left alone to wait for tomorrow and dream.

* * *

Christine did not tell the Pioches about her meeting with Erik. She did not think it right to tell them about him until she had asked Erik for his approval to be known by the Pioches. She could not sleep all night; her thoughts were occupied by Erik, by her memory of their meeting in the church, wondering how it would be like to go to Château d'Yquem now that it was not an abandoned manor anymore, but rather Erik Broussard's rightful home, her Angel's palace…

However, she was not tired in the morning. She was too elated and excited, in good ways and in confusing ones, to be tired from a sleepless night. She dressed carefully; somehow, she wished to be beautiful for Erik. From her drawer, she took a box of chocolates that Fabien Pioche had brought her from Paris, but which she had not yet opened. Now, she thought it would be a good gift for Erik on her first visit in his new home. She was extremely nervous, remembering the charms and horrors of her first visit to Erik's underground home in the opera house, but she knew that this time, it would be different. She left the house without an explanation; the Pioches knew that she always took solitary walks and did not ask her questions. Rosemonde gave her a strange look of hidden excitement, as if she knew the truth, but Christine decided to ignore her. She was always uncomfortable in Rosemonde's unpleasantly cryptic presence due to the red-haired korrigan's knowing and prying eyes. That moment of strangeness was no different than others.

Finally, Christine saw Château d'Yquem proudly greeting her from the cliff of the Cape of Knight Graelent. It was a glorious building, a perfect dwelling for a man like Erik. The thought made her feel proud and excited, as she imagined Erik with his beautiful cape, exploring the corridors that were his. She thought she saw a glimpse of him in one of the windows, but when she looked again, his image was not there and she was certain that it was all a trick of her mind. Then, suddenly, a violent gust of wind hit her frame and, like so many years before, stole her scarf from her head. It threw it at the end of the only pier that belonged to Château d'Yquem. Christine sighed in annoyance and ran to the end of the pier, kneeling down to claim back her scarf. However, she did that clumsily and the box of chocolates she had been holding in her hands fell into the sea.

"Oh, no…" she hissed.

On impulse, she leaned forward to grab the box of chocolates, but to her horror, she lost her balance and fell into the cold, raging water. The grey waves possessed her and pulled her down, coaxing her towards the bottom. Despite the incredible cold and the pain that came with it, benumbing her limbs and contracting her lungs, she managed to gather enough strength to swim towards the surface and take a deep, husky breath. But the waves pulled her back under water again. She could not swim, she never learned, and her gown and petticoats became too heavy for her. She felt how, very slowly, the sea was winning this one battle over her and all she could think of was Erik, how he waited for her to come in vain and how he would never know how much she loved him. She regretted her cowardice in her final moments before death. _If only I had told him of my love…_

She felt nothing, not anymore. Suddenly, she thought someone slid his arms around her waist and pulled her out of her icy hell. She imagined she was breathing, but she was not certain. Maybe it was a dream, a final hope, or death already. She opened her eyes and imagined that somewhere in the blur, she saw a man with a white half-mask gracing his face. But again, she could not be certain. Someone called her name; someone kissed her brow and shook her by her shoulders. Or did she imagine this again? When she was lifted from the ground, she believed her soul was being taken to Heaven. Then, images disappeared and darkness took her.


	9. Pearls of Light

_To answer some of the questions you have asked, and to comment on some of the things you have said__: _

_**1.**__ I based __the landscape__ on the actual landscape that you can see in Brittany/Bretagne - pink granite shores, cliffs, grayish sea, etc. The Cape of Knight Graelent and the Phantom's abode are my invention, of course. I didn't use any particular place to base the landscape on, just Bretagne in general. Bretagne is wonderful, very mystical, ancient, Celtic. I try to maintain its spirit when describing the landscape. I hope I've been successful._

_**2.**__The Phantom__: I'm really happy that you like my portrayal of him, and that you find it convincing. I didn't go for the totally dark Leroux style. I chose to follow ALW's portrayal, adding some of my interpretations. But yes, the darkness is still there. It's the Phantom we're talking about, not Peter Rabbit, naturally._

_**3.**__Christine__: Yes, not so typical. As I've said, I'm making her more mature, less fragile, and more confident. She won't just jump into the Phantom's embrace. She is under his spell, but she doesn't show it anymore. She has toughened up a bit. However, this doesn't mean that all the "under a spell" fun is gone. _

* * *

_CHAPTER 9: Pearls of Light_

Erik did not sleep much during the night, he never did. He was a nocturnal creature who belonged to the night. He felt most comfortable under its dark protecting wings woven from shadows and silence that was only interrupted, no, _enriched _by his music and an occasional sigh of longing that escaped his lungs. Sometimes, a sigh would be accompanied by a name pronounced under a whisper, ever so silently, and the name was always Christine. _Christine…_

The night after the evening that he spent with her, the night just before the blissful morning when she would finally come to him as he had always wanted her to come – because such was _her wish –_ he was so nervous that he could not even make music. He was pacing to and fro, from one corner to the other. His unfinished music room, which he decided to have in the beautiful cellar of the château, was dusty and empty. It longed to be furnished, to be finished, to be filled with music. But its calls were overheard cruelly and the room became completely silent, admitting its inanimate defeat. Towards the morning, when the Phantom finally _felt_ the sun rising – for his body was used to feeling, not seeing – he calmed down and, exhausted from the pacing, collapsed onto a settee he had had brought into the cellar. He looked at the burning candles on the candlesticks resting on the stone floor, smiling to himself. He had just had a vision of Christine Daaè standing in his music room, her eyes closed, her palms resting on her heart, her voice soaring above their mortal frames like never-ending magic. A new melody made its way to his mind, it entered tentatively and quickly blossomed into a bursting flower. Frustrated, Erik realised he forgot to bring the vellum sheets to his cellar music room, as well as bottles with ink and goose feathers. He knew the world had entered a new, technologically and scientifically improved era, but he was a traditionalist and always would be.

Therefore, he made his way to the first floor where certain items he needed in his music room were still sleeping in their boxes in his second music room, reserved for Christine and her love of light. He opened one wooden box, looking through the window at the same time and, to his surprise, he saw his beautiful Christine glancing towards the château from the seashore path. She was so beautiful, his angel of music, his joyous butterfly…He winced and stepped away from the window, taking a deep breath. _She was already here_…He took another deep breath and looked through the window again, scared that the woman he saw was only an apparition, a wicked trick of light. But he knew, deep down, that Christine really came, he just needed to learn how to be a believer. The scene that sprawled before his eyes took his breath away. His blood froze in his veins, the cold hurting his insides. He dropped the wooden box on the parquet floor and sprang into frantic motion. He ran down the long corridor of the first floor, down the wide grand staircase, as fast as he had never run before in his life. With only a black shirt, black breeches and polished black boots to protect him from the winter chill, he flung the back door of the château open and ran towards the pier where his life disappeared from his sight. Without thinking, he jumped into the grey frothing water. He screamed inwardly, for the contact with the icy waves pierced his skin with a thousand fire-hot needles, but the pain did not matter. He had experienced worse pain in his life. The white mask peeled off his face, but he caught it with his left hand, whereas his right hand slithered around a slim waist.

He half pulled Christine and himself on the low pier, putting the mask on it, when Christine slipped from his embrace. Again, he jumped after her. She was so heavy; her petticoats, her gown, all soaked, were pulling her down to certain death. Never! He cast away propriety and, under the surface of that oh so icy water, unbuttoned her gown, undressed his love to her under linen and finally saved her from the wet, lethal embrace of the grey waves. Once on the pier, she began to cough for dear life, but just as soon as she spat the water from her lungs, she faded into unconsciousness. Quickly, he lifted her in his arms and ran with his precious bundle back into the château. His only two servants, Marie and Maurice Dubosc, a married couple from the village, were chatting in the grand foyer, making plans for the day, when their master stormed into their presence with a half-dead and half-naked woman in his arms. Marie Dubosc screamed, recognising Miss Daaè.

"Madame Dubosc, Monsieur Maurice," the Phantom spoke, his voice trembling from the cold, but as still, as always, laced with a velvety darkness and a sense of command, "Mademoiselle Daaè has had an accident. Bring hot water, blankets, all fresh clothes that you can find, tea, everything! To the blue guest room!"

After this urgent command, time ceased to exist for him. He watched as Marie and Maurice brought hot tea to the blue guest room, he turned away when Madame Dubosc changed Christine into her own nightgown; again he watched as Maurice lifted the girl into his embrace, so that his wife could prepare the bed. Then, Maurice laid Christine into the bed, with Marie covering her with many blankets. Marie bowed before her master.

"Monsieur, Maurice shall prepare the fire in the hearth. I really think we should inform the Pioches about the accident. They will have been worried, monsieur."

He nodded curtly. "Yes, I agree, Madame. But Miss Daaè is not to be moved from the château until she gets better."

And she must get better, she must! He did not trust anyone but himself and Madame Dubosc to nurse his free joyous butterfly, his beautiful nightingale, back to health, to life…for her sake and for his, for he could not live without her. She was so fragile, she had always been fragile, but now she must fight, he would help her fight!

Madame Dubosc bowed, then she spoke tentatively, "Bless you, monsieur, for having saved Miss Daaè's life. You saved an angel, the whole village loves her."

Then, remembering her place, she put on a mask of seriousness of a servant and left the room, accompanied by her husband Maurice. The Phantom, touched by his servant's words and attitude towards him, smiled to himself. The Duboscs had noticed the mask, but they never asked question, nor had they showed fear. He gave them work, that mattered to them. And now that their master saved a girl they all loved, he more than anyone, that mattered even more. He felt accepted…

Quickly dismissing his thoughts, he moved to Christine's bed and, not minding propriety once more, sat down beside her still frame. He did not know whether she was sleeping or was still being held by the will of unconsciousness, but she looked peaceful. He touched her almost white cheeks with his hands, wincing when he sensed her cold skin. She looked peaceful, but dead, like Snow White in one of the paintings he had seen. The thought shook him severely. He truly realised how close he had been to losing his angel, how close he still was to losing her. She was still so cold, so white, so lifeless…Out of fear, he dared rest his ear on her chest. The slow rhythm of her heart danced to his ear._ Tum, tum, tum_…What beautiful music, full of hope! Reassured that she was alive, but ashamed of his audacity, he jumped away. He was not worthy to touch her, he did not deserve such an angel…A tear glistened in the corner of his eye. She was his only love, forever. She had achieved the impossible – she tamed his demons. They were still there, and they always would be, but in her presence, they bowed and disappeared in shame. She saw his loneliness, she sensed it. She forgave him for his deceit and by doing so, she freed a part of him and shunned the demons into oblivion. Were he Valentine and she Silvia, he could scream out loud,

_What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?  
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?  
Unless it be to think that she is by  
And feed upon the shadow of perfection,  
Except I be by Silvia in the night,  
There is no music in the nightingale;  
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,  
There is no day for me to look upon;  
She is my essence…_

But she was so far away from him now, resting in her own world, her face ivory, her voice silent. He loved to hear her speak, merely speak, for her voice alone was song. When she sang, she performed magic. Her silence seemed like deafening screams, screams of his despair. Would she return to life?

He looked towards her bed. Something had changed…He frowned and then noticed the change. Her cheeks were not so white anymore and her chest was heaving and dropping much more visibly. She winced, her eyes fluttered open, her lips parted. _God, her lips parted_…Her eyes found his and she smiled feebly.

"Angel…" she whispered. "You are here…I am not dead…Or am I?"

He approached her bed slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like fervent hands hitting the drums on the Beltane night. She was alive! Alive! Alive! And she seemed well enough. What relief…

"You are not dead, Christine," he spoke formally. Formally? _Formally? _What he really wished to say, with a warm, passionate voice, was: _If I tell you how much I love you, how much you mean to me, how my entire being depends on you alone, will you listen? Will you stay? Will you be here forever? Never go away?..._

But no, he said nothing. He knew the time was not right. Perhaps, one day, the time would be right and she would be ready to hear those words again. Once, he told her of his love for her, but he only frightened her. He was too hard on her; she was too fragile and not ready. Some day…

The moment was enough. Where there were darkness and despair before, he now saw light, beautiful pearls of light, and of hope. She was here and it was what mattered…for the moment.


	10. Rosemonde

_CHAPTER 10: Rosemonde_

Christine opened her eyes slowly, wincing as she stirred her stiff limbs under the warm blankets. Memories swamped her. She saw herself in that cold, gray water, waiting for death to take her, when a man came and saved her. Her Angel of Music saved her. She was alive and she realized that it was not too late to…Too late for what? She remembered how, tossed around by the icy waves, she regretted how she never told Erik of her love. But now, she was alive and everything changed. It changed for the better, she hoped. She was grateful and happy to be alive, but she was not giddy because of it, or shocked that she came so close to saying goodbye to life. She could only think of the one who pulled her from the sea. He saved her life. He saved it for the second time. She smiled. When he first took her hand and pulled her out of her misery, she was still a child, making her first steps towards womanhood. Now, she _was _a woman and she was so happy that he was the one to save her and be there to watch her blossom into the person she now was.

_Erik…_

She turned towards the light, towards the window, and there he stood, like a beautiful shadow surrounded by heavenly rays, like a pensive angel, always deep in his thoughts. She could see joy spreading over his face, and she knew it was because she was alive and well.

"Angel…" she whispered. "You are here…I am not dead…Or am I?"

She wished him to reassure her she was not dreaming. It seemed as if she had not seen him in ages. It appeared to her that, after all, her dreadful experience left a mark on her. She was afraid that everything she cared about would slip away before her eyes.

He walked towards the bed, but he stopped a few steps away from her. She felt a strange void in her heart that he should not come closer and hold her hand when she needed him, but she did not question his deeds.

"You are not dead, Christine," he spoke formally.

She frowned at his voice. It was different, too different. It made him look like a stranger and she did not like that. Without a warning, she threw the warm blankets off her body and, with a degree of difficulty, swung her legs over the edge of the big canopy bed. She saw him wince, but she did not care. She nearly drowned. She nearly lost her life and him. No, she did not care if he winced. She would not care even if he had chosen to scream at her. She took a wavering step towards him and fell into his wet embrace. She knew he would catch her, but she did not expect to come into contact with such a cold, wet body. She gasped and looked him in the eyes worriedly.

"Erik, you have not changed your clothes!" she exclaimed, her beautiful brows collapsing into a serious frown. Only now did she notice that his lips were slightly blue and he tried to hide the chattering of his teeth.

"I am quite fine, my dear," he replied, but she was not convinced.

"Erik, I am completely and utterly grateful to you that you saved my life. But I shall not be very grateful to you if you catch your death by remaining dressed in these wet clothes a moment longer. I shall not have it."

"Christine, please, get back to bed. You are not well yet."

She put her hands akimbo. "Do I look fragile to you? I do not seem fragile to myself. I feel perfectly well. But I'm not feeling as well as I could be because your state worries me. Your cheeks are pale, your lips blue, your skin cold and your clothes wet. Please, hurry and change yourself."

She saw doubt in his eyes, doubt that she knew all too well, but it did not disturb her anymore. Indulgently, she added, "Erik, I am not going anywhere for a while. You are right, I must rest for a few days, but you must change your clothes now."

His lips wrinkled into a faint smile, and so did hers. She did not want to return to the Pioches yet. She desired to spend a few days alone with Erik. He had offered her this, he had, and she decided to take the offer, to get to know him better, to learn his secrets and to discover his mysteries. To remove the layers and come to Erik's core. She loved him with all her heart, but it did not seem enough. She wished to love him even more, to the point it would cause her pain. She knew her logic made no sense, she knew she was abandoning reason, but she felt comfortable following her heart for a change, nothing else, only her heart. It would not be proper for her to stay at his château, but now she was unwell and she must stay. Truth be told, she knew full well she was well enough to return to L'Œillet, but she wanted to stay. She wanted to feel like Erik's friend for a few days. She would imagine she was his companion for life. It would be her secret.

At that moment, a commotion was heard from the staircase that led to the floor where her bedchamber was situated. She recognized the voice of Geneviève Pioche, chattering frantically to Marie Dubosc, Erik's housekeeper. She hurried to the bed, scrambled under the warm blankets and pretended to be ill. She had never felt so wicked before, but she truly wished to stay in the château. She looked over the blankets and, to her dismay, noticed that Erik had left the room as swiftly as the wind. She understood. He was not ready to meet the Pioches.

_At least_, Christine thought, _he will change his wet clothes_.

When Christine finished her thought, Geneviève Pioche stormed into the bedchamber, her husband and daughter in tow. Christine felt a pang of guilt for pretending she was more ill than she really was, but she was alive and no one could dispute that truth. Geneviève hurried to the bed.

"Oh, dear child, thank God you are alive! Madame Dubosc told me everything. This monsieur Broussard must have been sent from Heaven as your guardian angel, for if he hadn't been at the right place at the right time – Oh, I dare not say it, I dare not!"

"Are you well, Christine?" Fabien Pioche asked, studying her face with his doctor's eyes.

Christine nodded. "I am reasonably well. However, monsieur Broussard suggested that I stay in his château for a few days to fully recover. Do you think I should?" she asked tentatively, hoping no one would object.

"Absolutely, my dear!" Geneviève exclaimed. "You are not to be moved in this state. You had a terrible accident and if monsieur Broussard was so kind as to offer for you to recover in his stately home, you should not refuse him. He is a smart man. He obviously doesn't want to risk you catching a cold. Or worse, pneumonia!"

Christine smiled wistfully. _What a liar I am…But I am lying for the right cause, to be with him. We deserve to spend a few days together, without outward pressure and scrutiny._

"Could I speak to monsieur Broussard?" Fabien asked. "I should like to thank him for having saved our dear Christine."

Marie Dubosc, who had not left the room, chimed in with respect, "My master is not quite fond of visitors yet for personal reasons, but I shall inform him of your wish and I am sure he will agree to see you in a few days' time."

The Pioches stared at her in wonder, but recovered quickly. Then, Rosemonde signed something to her mother, a cryptic smile, as always, resting on her face. Geneviève laughed aloud, making Christine and Marie Dubosc frown in confusion.

Geneviève explained, "My cheeky daughter said that, with monsieur Broussard being a loner, he must have taken a fancy to our Christine for letting her recover here."

Christine's ivory cheeks blushed in anger. She had not grown to like Rosemonde. The red-haired korrigan simply had too many secret opinions for Christine's case, and it also seemed to Christine that Rosemonde always observed her, almost studied her. Christine did not like that. But this time, she was saved by Marie Dubosc.

"No, mademoiselle, my master simply showed some humanity, 'tis all."

Rosemonde signed to her mother. _Is this how taking a fancy to someone is called these days?_

_Oh, Rosemonde, cheeky child, do not assume so much! However, he seems to be rich, he would be quite a catch for Christine._

_Indeed, he would be. I wonder if he is handsome. I should like to know. I might take a fancy to him and have him like me._

_Come, come, Rosemonde!_

"My dears," Fabien intervened, "you are not being very civil towards Christine and Madame Dubosc, communicating in a language they do not comprehend."

Christine was happy Fabien stopped the mysterious conversation between mother and daughter. She had a feeling they were talking about her and she hated to be talked about like this. As she did not know the signs they used, she felt as if they had been talking behind her back in front of her very eyes.

"Besides," Fabien continued kindly, "we must leave Christine to her rest. We shall come back to escort her back home. We will not bother you during your rest, Christine, but do try to write to us a few lines each day."

Christine assured Fabien that she would, most happy now that they were taking their leave. To her surprise, their visit proved to be very stressful, mostly because of Geneviève's and Rosemonde's conversation she could not understand, and because of Rosemonde's remark that Geneviève cared to translate. As the Pioches said their goodbyes to her, Christine saw Rosemonde watch her intently. The girl's emerald eyes flashed and her lips curled into a wide, calculating smile. She lifted her hand and waved a goodbye, then followed her mother and father out of the room. Christine winced, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Her peace was disturbed. She turned around in her new bed and drifted into a nervous sleep.


	11. A Time For Us

_CHAPTER 11: A Time For Us_

Erik left Christine, to avoid her visitors, the Pioches, and to shed his wet clothes, as was her wish. It felt incredibly wonderful when she awoke, proving to him that she was alive; incredibly wonderful when she smiled and called him Angel. She did not hate him, that much was certain. The third thing that seemed incredibly wonderful was the fact that she showed concern for him. She embraced him, _embraced_ him, noticed his clothes were wet and almost ordered him to change because she was worried for his health.

She may not have loved him, but she worried about him and that was quite enough for the time being, Erik mused. He hurried to his bedroom, put on some dry clothes and sat down on his bed. He listened intently, wishing he was a fly in Christine's bedroom, to be able to know what she was telling the Pioches about him. Good things, bad things? Was she begging them to save her from him? No, not that, somehow, he felt she had overcome her fears. She had, had she not?...

Finally, he heard them leave, their voices reverberating from afar. He stepped into the corridor, turning right and walking down the staircase to visit Christine, but mid-stride he winced and changed his mind. He walked back to the second floor, this time headed for his music room, the one he intended for Christine's use, that wonderful child of light. In the music room, there was the sable-black short grand piano, piles of books and music sheets on the floor, waiting to be put in order. Flocks of dust covered the parquet floor. There was a bucket of water by the piano, and a cloth resting on the lid, left there by Madame Dubosc. Erik decided that he would arrange the music room over the night because Christine felt well and would probably only sleep in the château this one night and would return back to the Pioches as soon as possible, he assumed. He wanted her to sing for him tomorrow, in the morning, just once, before she left him to linger in his solitude. Before his leaving Paris, he was so confident about wooing her in Perros-Guirec. Now that she was sleeping under his roof, he was a coward.

He freed the room of the dust, he arranged the books about music and music sheets on a beautifully carved shelf. It was not his music; his music reigned in the cellar. He even washed the tall, narrow, Gothic-looking windows. Then, exhausted, he sat down on the piano bench and began to play a melody in the darkness. He did not bother to light a candle; he preferred to play surrounded by the black shadows. He felt comfortable. Yet, the more he played, the more tense he was becoming. The knowledge that Christine was resting one floor below him was almost unbearable. Abruptly, he stopped playing and began to pace the room to and fro, to and fro, as if he had been caught in a strange trance. When the morning came, he was still pacing. Then, suddenly, he knew he could not take it anymore. He growled inwardly, attacked the beautifully carved shelf and shoved all the books and music sheets on the floor. He raged and panted like a wild animal. The truth was there, his wish was there.

He screamed it out loud. "Christine, you must love me!"

He hit the wall with his fist, wounding his knuckles, blood glistening on his pale, thin fingers. He did not care about the pain, it was a welcome companion that distracted his thoughts, but he heard a gasp, a gasp as light as a summer breeze, but at that moment, at the moment of his guilt and fear, it seemed as loud as a gust of thunder. He slowly turned towards the door and saw Christine standing on the threshold, gazing at him in shock.

She saw and heard his madness.

His world collapsed.

* * *

As the Pioches said their goodbyes to her, Christine saw Rosemonde watch her intently. The girl's emerald eyes flashed and her lips curled into a wide, calculating smile. She lifted her hand and waved a goodbye, then followed her mother and father out of the room. Christine winced, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Her peace was disturbed. She turned around in her new bed and drifted into a nervous sleep. She spent the night turning over in the big canopy bed. Something was bothering her greatly, but it was not a pea, as she was no princess. It was a feeling, a perplexing emotion. Christine wondered how much Rosemonde knew about her. That kept Christine awake for most of the night. She was afraid, not for herself, but for Erik. Had it become known in the town who he really was, he would be lynched. Christine shuddered.

"My dear Erik, I will not allow this to happen to you, my love," she whispered into her pillow.

Then, she waited for the morning to come, humming a melody from Erik's strange, yet beautiful opera to herself. The minutes ticked away, her humming continued, and she lulled herself to sleep; she lulled herself to sleep humming Erik's music to herself. As the first rays of light pierced the glass of the window in the bedroom, Christine fluttered her eyes open and smiled. Morning at last! _I can see him again, at last. _She scrambled from the bed, groggy from the lack of sleep, and put on the slippers and the wrapper that Madame Dubosc had brought her the day before. She looked at the pendulum clock, the pendulum inside it swinging silently, and saw it was still very early, not yet seven of the clock.

The château was silent. It was a reverent silence, so peaceful, so welcoming, like the night silence in the opera house, or the silence she witnessed when she awoke from her emotional stupor in Erik's underground abode for the first time. It was not a usual silence, it was a silence that came after blissful music, and such silence was not like any other possible silence in the world. It was the second most beautiful sound, and the first one was music. Christine sighed dreamily and decided to explore the château a little until the house became alive again. She left her room and decided to climb up the wide staircase. In the opera house, she would often go to the roof and jump into the air to reach the sky, to touch Heaven with her fingertips. Thus, she did not turn right or left in the corridor, but climbed the staircase, imagining she was on her way to the roof of the opera house, on her way to the sculpted angel, hoping she would find a real angel that she knew had to be hiding somewhere in the château.

She reached the next floor and listened. Not a sound. She took her chances and opened the first door on her right. The room was veiled in complete darkness; the curtains were drawn together, the thick velvet blocking the light from outside. Christine walked into the room and drew the curtains apart, coughing as the dust lifted into the air and danced around her nostrils. To her dismay, the room was empty, not a piece of furniture present in it, except for a dust-covered settee. She shrugged her shoulders and left the room, thinking what to do next. Then, she heard a faint sound. She only heard it because she listened for a sound, her ears seeking it in the silence.

Tum, tum, tum, like a beating heart. Christine frowned, listened, and followed the sound. She pressed her ear against a door and shook her head. She pressed her ear to the third and last door in the corridor and nodded. She opened the door silently, ever so carefully, and froze on the threshold. She saw Erik pick a book from a shelf and throw it into the opposite wall with a violent force. She saw tears streaming down his face and then, his fist hit the wall with a terrible force, making his knuckles bleed. She winced, deliberating whether she should run to him and calm him, or not. Then, he screamed, "Christine, you must love me!"

She gasped, her jaw dropping. Her first and only thought was, _I am doing this to you, Erik? I?_

But he had noticed her, horror flickering in his blue orbs, and she knew he thought she was shocked and repulsed by his behavior when, in truth, she actually understood it. She took a step forward, and he took a step back, avoiding her gaze like a frightened child, ashamed of his body and soul. She was persistent; she took another step forward, following him, until his back reached the wall and they stopped. He covered his face with his hands, hiding it from her soft gaze. Blood was dripping from his right hand, his knuckles in pain.

He heard the ripping of a fabric, but he did not look. He heard another ripping sound of the same fabric, but still, he did not look. Then, he felt her fingers taking his bleeding hand into hers and wrapping a cloth around it. He looked and noticed that she ripped off a sleeve of her wrapper and was now using it to cover his bleeding, wounded knuckles. Inwardly, he was shaking, but he did not recoil from her gentle touch. He observed her in secret as she worked on the strange bandage, her face completely calm, her eyes focused on his hand. When the deed was done, she looked up, meeting his gaze, and smiled.

"Erik," she spoke, making his heart flutter, "do not hurt yourself anymore for my sake. I am not worth the pain."

She kissed his other hand, the one he had not had the time to wound against the wall, and then, she rested her cheek on it. Erik was too shocked and amazed by her words, and by her actions, and he did not speak. Yet, the moment washed over him and he reacted on the whim of an impulse. He pressed Christine's body against his chest and embraced her gently, kissing her forehead lovingly. Her eyes met his, and she smiled.

"Erik, have you slept at all this night?"

He shook his head.

She took his hand again and led him to the window alcove right next to the piano. The alcove was meant to be sat in, as there were pillows piled on the window bench. Without a word, she gently forced him to sit down in the window alcove. She smiled and said, "Now, rest, if only for a short time. Rest."

He frowned in confusion. Christine pressed a key on the piano, for accurate intonation, and smiled at her confused masked man.

"I will sing to you and you must rest."

"But you have to warm up your voice!" the teacher in him spoke.

_It is already warmed up, with my love for you_, she said to herself. To him, she said, "It is not a performance, or a lesson, Erik. Only my wish to indulge you."

That seemed to shut his mouth. Christine began to sing one of her favourite arias, _Pamina's Lament_ from _The Magic Flute_ by no other than Mozart. The words of the aria were sad and hopeless, but Christine was happy and hopeful and the only thing that mattered now was to soothe Erik's wounded soul. She wanted to tell him that she understood, and she wanted him to notice her true feelings and understand as well. She sang with her heart on her sleeve, watching as he was becoming immersed in her voice, the voice that she knew he loved just as much as he loved her.

_No one dreams that love can dwindle  
when there seems no trace of doubt.  
Once it wanes, you can't rekindle  
flames of ardour dying out.  
All so sudden, unexpected, passion dies when love has fled._

_Worse than death is love rejected, like dampened flames,  
my soul is dead._

On this morning, she truly gave him her soul and she was dead. She was only his.

She ceased to sing when the aria ended, shedding a tear as she looked at Erik's peaceful, sleeping face. She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her right hand and walked to him. She knelt down and rested her head on his knees. Then, she fell asleep as well.

"I love you," she whispered before sleep took her.

* * *

Author's Note: _Pamina's Lament_ is better known as _Ach, ich fulls_. You can listen to it on YouTube, it's a beautiful aria.


	12. Disruption

The lyrics of the song I used in this chapter belong to **phantom-jedi1. **

* * *

_CHAPTER 12: Disruption_

She ceased to sing when the aria ended, shedding a tear as she looked into Erik's peaceful, sleeping face. She wiped the tear from her face with the back of her right hand and walked to him. She knelt down and rested her head on his knees. Then, she fell asleep as well.

"I love you," she whispered before sleep took her.

Erik did not sleep long, comfortably sitting in the window alcove, but he did sleep for almost half an hour, which was quite a feat. He had never before slept during the day. But this was quite a different occasion; it was his very own Angel of Music, who had lulled him to sleep. He fluttered his eyes open, slowly, in disbelief, for he felt something soft and warm on his knees. His eyes were now fully open and his gaze widened further as he beheld the sleeping form of Christine nestled against his legs, her head resting on his knees as if it had always belonged there. She was so beautiful and she was not afraid; she must not have been afraid of him. It could not be possible, for she fell asleep by his side quite on her own accord, did she not?

Erik was completely and utterly bemused. It was true, but he could hardly believe it. Christine was not afraid of him anymore! Yet, he was afraid of the change. He had dreamed of such moments ever since he had first seen her in the chapel of his opera house; ever since she first parted her beautiful lips and let her seraphic voice pour from her mouth like a brook of magic. He was used to such life: The first thing he wanted would never come; the last thing he wanted would come first. Now, it was the other way around and he could not bear it; it was an overwhelming sensation.

He prepared himself to leave. He stood up so as not to awaken his sleeping angel. He lifted her in his arms and laid her in the alcove as quickly as possible. Having her in his arms was a great temptation, greater than the one that defeated Eve. Yet, as soon as he broke the contact with her, she opened her eyes and smiled.

"Do not leave me yet, Erik."

He stood before her, dumbfounded."What…What is it that you need"' he asked, his voice a whisper, his tone formal. He was so nervous that it was almost ridiculous.

"Why, Erik, your company. I need your company. That is why I am here, for a week."

That was unexpected. "I beg your pardon?"

She shifted, propped herself on one elbow and blushed severely. She lowered her head, trying to hide the intense hue of carmine that had enveloped her cheeks so disgracefully.

"The truth is, and do not be angry…The truth is that I am quite well, so well, in fact, that I do not have to stay under your roof any longer."

Erik sighed. He felt…

Pain—

Void—

Anger—

Readiness to die—

She continued, "Yet, if you will allow this, I would very much like to stay here for a week, if you do not mind. That is to say, the first day we met in Perros, I told you that I wish to be your friend, that I wish to know you better, and you confessed the same wishes to me. If you have not changed your mind…"

Confusion—

Victory—

Life!

"Y-yes, you may stay. You are most welcome to stay, Christine, as my guest and…as a friend."

Her face was beaming with a brilliant smile; the blush had vanished. "Thank you, Erik," she breathed.

"And the Pioches?" Erik inquired.

"They need not know the truth."

He nodded, feeling like the happiest man on Earth for the first time since the beginning of his existence.

"Can I ask you one more thing, Erik?"

He loved it how she said his name. "Anything, Christine," he replied dreamily.

"Sing to me, about the rose and the nightingale."

He complied with her wish; it was her favourite song, her favourite story and the melody was his doing. He sat at the piano and she joined him on the piano bench. She rested her head on his shoulder, making him tremble with delight. And then, he sang of forbidden love,

_A nightingale  
A white rose  
A love not meant to be_

_Forbidden by Allah  
Yet the deed is done:  
A red rose is born  
Of white rose's form  
And nightingale's thorn-drawn blood._

_What words can we use?  
How are we to speak of a love  
Never meant to be?  
A forbidden love  
Bringing forth an unexpected gift  
To those who have hearts to see  
Beauty hidden within the tragedy._

_The red rose  
Wrought by song and love.  
Love so pure, so powerful  
Life itself was the price._

Erik finished the song with the greatest of his hopes – that Christine would come to love him one day.

* * *

Three days had passed and they were days of pure joy and bliss for Erik and Christine. Neither told the other how they truly felt, but they took great delight in each other's company. They ate all the meals together; they had singing lessons; in the afternoons, they would read to each other from various books in the library that came to Erik's possession together with the château. On the third day, Christine persuaded Erik to tell her more about his life. He already knew everything there was to know about her, but she hardly knew anything about him. Some time ago, he would have easily refused her request, but now that their friendship was growing and she was not afraid of him anymore, he indulged her, although with some measure of reluctance.

He told her how he came to the opera house, what Madame Giry meant to him, as she was the woman who saved his life and the only person he could consider to be his mother. He confessed to Christine that he named himself and that he did not remember his mother. Why should he? He ran away because of her cruelty, the cruelty of her cold, black heart. The tale angered and saddened Christine. How could people be so cruel, especially mothers? She shed a few tears and she embraced Erik ever so innocently, creating a tumult of strong emotions within him. By telling her about his life, he allowed for the wall around him to collapse and he had never felt closer to Christine than he did on that day. He was happy, for she felt sympathy for him and that was far better than indifference. There were times when he asked himself the question that gnawed at his insides.

_Does she think of the vicomte during the night?_

That question kept him awake during the lonely, cold nights, but in the morning, when Christine was sitting opposite to him at the table, chuckling happily and spreading butter over a piece of bread, he was content and almost at peace.

On the fourth day of Christine's stay at the château, their silent happiness was disrupted by most disturbing news. As Erik and Christine were enjoying their breakfast, she laughing over a silly memory she had just confessed to Erik, Madame Dubosc entered the dining parlour, wringing her hands nervously.

"Mademoiselle Christine," she spoke cautiously. "There are two letters for you, one from Paris and one an urgent message from Madame Pioche."

Christine's heart skipped a beat and her skin grew pale. She looked at Erik across the table, but she could not meet his gaze. His eyelids were lowered and his jaw tense; she could see that much. She sighed nervously, wried a smile and took both letters from Madame Dubosc's hands.

"Thank you," she said politely and Madame Dubosc left.

Christine recognized Madame Giry's handwriting on one of the envelopes and she gave a sigh of relief.

"Oh," she spoke, "it's a letter, from Madame Giry. Nothing to worry about, I'm sure."

She broke the seal and read,

_My dear Christine,_

_I have grave news to tell you. By sheer misfortune, Vicomte de Chagny saw me reading your latest letter. If only I had destroyed it when I first finished reading it! I missed you and I decided to re-read your letters when monsieur Raoul burst into my room. He knows where you are and at the same moment as you are reading this letter, he is on his way to Perros-Guirec. If he travels fast, he will have been there before my letter. Oh, Christine, I am ever so sorry. I hope you can forgive me my foolishness._

_Yours, Eléonore Giry._

Christine could hardly breathe from the shock. Moments ago, she believed she was in heaven. Now, she believed she was in hell. An instinct instructed her, almost demanded of her, that she open the urgent letter from the Pioches. She broke the seal and read with great apprehension,

_Dear Christine!_

_I hope you are well enough to receive an old friend at monsieur Broussard's château. His name is Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, and he is most eager to see you. He wanted to surprise you, but I hate surprises myself, so I decided to inform you of his arrival. Please, respond immediately. The vicomte is waiting in our house. _

_Fabien Pioche_

"No!" Christine exclaimed and jumped on her feet.

"What is it?" Erik was worried.

The ivory paleness of Christine's cheeks was far from reassuring. She met his gaze, despair and apprehension flickering in her brown orbs. She spoke honestly and the simple works cut into Erik's heart like the sharpest of daggers.

"Raoul has found me. At this very moment, he is waiting for me at the Pioches."

The look on Erik's face killed her hopes. His eyes grew cold and then, completely expressionless. He got on his feet and walked away. He was seething with anger and she knew she could not follow him yet, not so soon. She sat down in her chair and began to weep earnestly, hiding her face behind her trembling palms. She felt so devastated, so very devastated. Then, from upstairs, she heard a terrible sound, as if someone had dropped something really heavy on the floor.

She gasped, wiped her tears and hurried up the staircase.


	13. The Nature of Bliss

_CHAPTER 13: The Nature of Bliss_

_She met his gaze, despair and apprehension flickering in her brown orbs. She spoke honestly and the simple works cut into Erik's heart like the sharpest of daggers._

"_Raoul has found me. At this very moment, he is waiting for me at the Pioches."_

_The look on Erik's face killed her hopes. His eyes grew cold and then, completely expressionless. He got on his feet and walked away. He was seething with anger and she knew she could not follow him yet, not so soon. She sat down in her chair and began to weep earnestly, hiding her face behind her trembling palms. She felt so devastated, so very devastated. Then, from upstairs, she heard a terrible sound, as if someone had dropped something really heavy on the floor._

_She gasped, wiped her tears and hurried up the staircase._

When Erik heard that dreadful sentence slither from Christine's beautiful mouth like a poisonous snake, his world collapsed in one short moment. He realised quickly that those magical days spent with Christine in friendship, music, and sweet confidence, every minute of every day filled with hope and yearning, were all too fragile and too precious to be kept by unworthy men. The viscount found her. The rich boy with a title, a bright mansion, a brilliant smile, with everything a woman could wish for in a man, was back in her life and Erik found it easy to doubt himself. And it was just as easy to doubt her. Why did she give him happiness? To destroy him for good?

_Lying Dalilah!_

He was now angry with her, not really. She killed him. She killed his soul, once again, and this time, it would not be resurrected anew, for the one who could accomplish this act would leave him, again, but this time, only to never come back again. His eyes grew cold; there was nothing in them, for there was nothing in him anymore. Nothing but rage and death.

Erik got on his feet abruptly and walked away with stern steps, ignoring the sob that caressed his ears like a melody of hope. For a moment, he ventured a thought. _Perhaps, I see things that are not there. Perhaps, she is innocent…_But he dismissed that entirely. No more lies from her, no more, no more hope and wicked, enchanting smiles that made him love her more and more with each passing moment, until his heart was so filled with love for her that it burst into flames that consumed him whole.

His destination was clear. He threw open the door of his music room, the one furnished for Christine, above the darkness of the cellar, making the door bounce from the wall with an ugly sound. He was bound on destroying what once meant everything to him, before _she_ came into his life. He cared about nothing anymore. He hated everything now, even music. He scoffed at his beautiful sable-black short grand piano with hatred. The last time he played it, it was to please her with his talent and to accompany her voice. The lid was still lifted, the stick supporting it, so that it could hover in the air. Erik growled, pain lacing his every fibre, and attacked the beautiful, innocent instrument. He picked up a statuette of a cherub from a box, gave it a cold smile, some perverse satisfaction spreading through his veins like a hot feeling, like bitter bile, and threw the statuette at the piano.

The object hit the stick that broke in half, such was the force of the impact, and the lid fell on the instrument with a crushing sound. The strings of the piano cried in protest, producing a highly cacophonous sound that reverberated in the room like a dreadful requiem. Slowly, the ugly melody subsided and all the sounds died. The piano was destroyed.

Erik was breathing heavily, his hands shaking. He wiped the sweat from his cheeks – or were they tears? – and walked to the window alcove. He descended into the soft seat where he and Christine spent a sweet, sweet hour, just sleeping. He exhaled a trembling sigh, hiding his face, his ugly face, in the cradle of his arms.

_Damn you, Christine…Damn you, Raoul de Chagny…_

He heard her steps, then, running up the staircase, her skirt swishing behind her. She called his name, but he did not respond. She called his name three times very frantically until she finally found him in the music room, reigning amidst the destruction he had created. She did not say a thing. She did not gasp, or sigh, or produce any other sound that he had expected her to produce, assuming that she felt indignation and fear and shock. And regret that she ever came to be his unfortunate guest.

She walked to the piano and caressed the lid with care. Tears were shimmering in her eyes, running freely down her cheeks, without a sound. It seemed that she was grieving over the piano.

"I cannot believe that you still doubt me," she spoke silently. Her tone was laced with disappointment.

Erik looked up. "I am tired of your tricks, Christine. I am _exhausted_."

She walked to him, anger showering her facial features, and tipped his chin upwards, making him look into her eyes, surprising him with her act beyond belief.

"_You_ are exhausted? You, Erik?" She smiled bitterly. "I am exhausted more than you can imagine. I have tried so hard, _so hard_ these past few days, to show you the truth, but you would not see it. You only think that I wish to pamper you with false hopes a bit before I leave you for good with Raoul, is that not so?"

She turned around, crossing her arms over her chest. She could not look at him. How could he doubt her so much? He did not deserve to know the truth now, but she decided to give herself and him one more chance, and if he did not take it, she would truly leave him for good.

"I wanted to tell you this on a beautiful day, Erik, when our souls would be completely connected in one beautiful harmony. On a day when we would understand each other so much that even magical words would be redundant."

_Tell me what, Christine?_ He thought. _That it was all a lie, that every moment was false, but I need not worry, because you will tell your children about a fool who once loved you?_

She faced him again, this time a strangely blessed glow crowning her face, her eyes, her every feature. "I love you, Erik."

He stared at her. _No, it cannot be…_

She continued softly, making every word the most important word in the universe. "I have loved you, I believe, since the times I considered you to be the voice of the Angel of Music I had been awaiting. I was ashamed of myself, then, because I found myself loving a creature of God in the way it was disrespectful to the Angel. It was the love of a woman for a man. I loved your voice so much…"

She smiled through tears, closing her eyes, remembering. "On the evening you showed yourself to me, I was relieved to find that I loved a man, that the Voice was a man, a real man. Imagine my shock when I learned that man's true identity, that of the Phantom of the Opera…But I managed something many would think impossible, even you. I found a way to get to know that man, to make him surpass the image of the Voice and the Phantom. He became Erik. He remained Erik even when he forced me to love him when I already did, even when he threatened me and wished to confine me. And this week, he proved to me that he is the one that I was meant to love. Unfortunately, today, he doubts me still."

She sobbed. "He doubts me still…"

Erik shook his head. His face was grey from shock. His greatest hope had just come true: _Christine loved him_. How did a man respond when the woman he loved actually loved him in return, despite all of his demons, _together_ with his demons? She found him _worthy_. He was so astounded, so happy, that he could not react properly. He just sat there, in the window alcove, gaping at Christine.

She did not understand the thrill in his eyes. Her face fell. "I see," she spoke flatly, managed an awkward smile and turned around. "Goodbye, then, Erik."

"No!" he exclaimed, finally awakening from his emotional stupor. He hurried to her side.

"No, Christine. That man doubts himself, that man you...love. It is not your fault."

She turned around, teary-eyed. "It is not?"

He shook his head again. "It is not." He smiled shakily. "I love you, Christine, but you know that already."

She smiled a brilliant smile, immense relief and a feeling of complete peace pouring into her soul. "I will never be bothered if you tell me so. I will never mind, Erik."

He took her delicate hands into his and kissed them with passion, yet reverence.

"Forgive me, angel, forgive me. I do love you so…" he whispered.

Christine pressed her brow against his cheek, embracing him tenderly. "This is what they call bliss, Erik, is it not, this wonderful, uplifting feeling?"

"I believe so, my love," he replied softly.

"You do not doubt my love? You do believe that I truly love you?"

He sighed with love. "I do. I truly do." He kissed her brow; he could kiss her brow now, freely.

"When you are in my arms, I hear music all the time, the most beautiful harmonies one can imagine," he confessed.

She smiled. "That is wonderful. I truly do feel loved." She blushed. "Erik, we may kiss," she blurted out, her cheeks veiled in crimson red at her audacity.

He blushed, too, being completely inexperienced in love. He knew how to love, but the rest was a blurry mystery to him. Still, he nodded, swallowed hard and simply pressed his lips against Christine's, hoping that was the way such acts were accomplished. It felt nice, more than nice. He heard a symphony now, such a symphony that even the great Mozart would envy. The beauty of his first kiss met all of his expectations and more.

Christine looked him in the eyes dreamily and he could feel her love. That beautiful day came, when they understood each other so much that no words were necessary. He smiled with his eyes, he _spoke_ with his eyes. She smiled back, nodding softly, saying, "Yes, I will."

And they kissed again. That was bliss. She gave him back his life and it would remain so.

"Erik," she said, "your piano. Oh, you silly man, your piano!"

He smiled and felt quite ashamed. "I will have it mended, I promise."

"Promise me one more thing. Your temper, my love. Ah, your temper," she sighed.

"I will try. You can believe me."

She nodded. "I do."

Yes, that was bliss.


	14. Au Revoir, Mon Ami

_CHAPTER 14: Au Revoir, Mon Ami_

Erik was none too happy to hear from Christine that she truly needed to speak to Raoul. After all, the young viscount was waiting for her at the house of the Pioches and it was no use delaying the unavoidable conversation. She had a good argument, she thought. Raoul was a good man and her friend, as much as Erik wished to ignore the fact, and he deserved to part from her in friendship. She deserved the same. Finally, Erik agreed to let her see the viscount, with an annoyed growl escaping his throat, his eyes scintillating with distrust. He trusted Christine, but never Raoul de Chagny. He almost lost Christine to that man.

Christine kissed Erik on the lips ever so gently and lovingly, almost making him purr. She was sure she could make him purr if she so wished, but she decided against it, with a mysterious smile spread across her face, confusing her beloved hopelessly. She giggled; then, with a serious pout, she made him promise several times that he would not follow her to the Pioches. And so, she headed towards the cottage of her childhood days, feeling Erik's intense gaze boring into her back. She knew he was watching her from one of the windows of the château. She did not mind his protective and quite possessive care anymore. It made her feel alive. She knew he truly loved her and always would. He would be guiding her and guarding her, and she would be doing the very same thing for him. They were going to have everything they needed – love, music, dreams and peace. Their house was a castle. Their air was music. They had each other and she wished for no more.

Christine came to L'Œillet. She took a deep breath and knocked on the front door. She was warmly welcomed by Geneviève Pioche. She soon found herself answering numerous questions about her improving health. She also reassured Madame Pioche that monsieur Broussard was a paragon of a host. She smiled to herself. She could not wait to see Madame Pioche's face when she told her the truth. But not now, later, after she and Raoul had said a proper farewell to each other. On the way to the parlour, she heard his kind voice explaining to Fabien Pioche about the time he spent in L'Œillet with Gustave Daaè and his beautiful, talented daughter. Christine sighed sadly. Those days were behind them. Her father was long dead and she would have to tell Raoul that she only loved him as a sister loved her brother. Her throat clenched and she swallowed hard, but it had to be done. There was no other way. She loved Erik. She needed Erik. If she would never see Raoul again for her love's sake, she was willing to pay the price.

As she entered the parlour, Raoul sprang to his feet, but did not run to embrace her, as she had expected him to do. He stood there awkwardly, waiting for her to make the first move. She knew he was uncertain. Her heart went out to him, but she knew she was still there to hurt his feelings, for she suspected that he still loved her and she could not love him back. Fabien and the ever-present Rosemonde kindly offered to leave the two old friends to talk in private. Before they left the parlour, Christine noticed that something had changed inside Rosemonde. The red-haired korrigan always seemed to be a daring and mysterious sight to behold. Now, she was simply a woman, her eyes glowing, glowing…because of Raoul! Christine was shocked, but not unpleasantly so. Perhaps, this matter should be considered.

''Christine,'' Raoul spoke and she focused on him anew. She saw expectation in his eyes.

''Oh, dear Raoul, how happy I am to see you! We can embrace each other, can we not?''

Raoul nodded eagerly and hurried to envelop her in a suffocating embrace. He proceeded to kiss her on the lips, but Christine swiftly put a hand between their mouths. She chose to ignore the crushed expression in his eyes and, nervously, asked him to sit down on the sofa before the fireplace.

''Raoul, there is so much I must say to you,'' she began.

He nodded. ''I suppose you do. You left without a proper goodbye and…Christine, please, relieve me of my doubts now, this instant. Are we still engaged to be married or was your request in a letter to Madame Giry true? You do not wish to marry me?''

Christine sighed sadly, feeling completely ashamed. ''I am aware of my indifferent gesture. I should not have asked Madame Giry to speak for me. You did not deserve to be treated thus by me.'' She took a deep breath. ''And yet, I spoke the truth, Raoul. We…are not engaged anymore. I am terribly sorry, Raoul. It breaks my heart to have to tell you that…I do not wish to,'' she bit her lip and finally said, ''become your wife.''

Raoul nodded gravely. ''I hoped against hope…''

A tear slid down her cheek. She could not bear to see him so hurt. ''Truly, Raoul, I am sorry, but I cannot command my heart to feel something it does not feel, cannot feel. But know, my dear friend, that I will forever appreciate all that you have done for me. I will never forget the boy who saved my red scarf from the wild sea. I will never forget the man who offered his friendship, even his love, to a forlorn woman in distress. I shall cherish you, always. And I do love you, Raoul. However, I only love you as my brother. I consider you to be my brother, and my dearest friend.''

Finishing her monologue, she waited for his reply. His face was blank, but his eyes spoke volumes. She felt like a fiend. She only hoped that Erik was with her in spirit, for she needed his comfort. Erik knew hers was not an easy task.

Finally, Raoul spoke. ''What changed, Christine?'' he asked silently.

''_I_ changed, Raoul. I have matured. Oh, no, when I say the words aloud, they seem so wrong…It would be better to say that I _found_ myself. I was lost in Paris. I felt stretched, too stretched, like a meagre amount of marmalade being spread over a large piece of bread. I was afraid of losing myself, of losing everything I wished to have. So I ran away, to the place where I spent my childhood, where I was first sculpted into a person I was bound to become. Here, I found myself. I returned to the innocence I lost on the day my father died.''

She knew it was time to tell the truth. ''He followed me and together, we found ourselves. I helped him, and he helped me. He found his innocence as well. He found his truth.''

Raoul's eyes widened and his mouth twisted. ''Who is _he_?''

''Erik Broussard.''

''Christine, are you trying to tell me that you fell in love with the owner of the château monsieur Pioche told me about? I know that man saved you from certain death and I am most grateful to him for his heroic act, but you have only known him for a week! Christine, gratitude is not love!''

She shook her head. ''I know that, Raoul. Do not think me so simple and common, for I am not simple and common. The truth is, I have known him for years.''

Raoul's brow collapsed into a frown. ''I do not comprehend the meaning of your words…''

She heaved a deep sigh. ''Raoul, prepare yourself, for I know you well enough to suspect that you will not understand me. You will think me delusional, but I am not. I am completely sane. I have all my wits about me. My mind is not poisoned, and neither is my heart.''

Raoul was impatient. ''For the love of God, tell me!''

''Raoul, you only know Erik Broussard as the Phantom of the Opera.''

Raoul sprang to his feet as fast as a tiger. ''What?'' he exclaimed with a tone of utter indignation and disbelief. ''Please, you must be jesting! The owner of the ch-'' He paused, realisation slowly dawning on him. With contempt, he spoke, ''You love the _Opera Ghost_?''

Christine nodded solemnly. ''Yes. I have consented to become his wife, Raoul.''

Raoul exploded. ''This is sheer madness, Christine! He followed you and accomplished his goal. He has you enthralled, _again_. You are _not _yourself. You cannot love him! He is a criminal! He needs to be brought to justice and let that be the end of his ghostly escapades! You are in danger, Christine! He is a beast. If you become his wife, he will devour you. He will take away your innocence and good heart. He will destroy you. Can you guarantee that he will not hurt you, force you, kill you? He is a monster with no face, a common criminal!''

Suddenly, Raoul jarred his teeth and his hand flew to his burning cheek. Shocked, he looked in the burning eyes of Christine, who had just slapped him as if he were a mere street urchin. He opened his mouth to utter a protest, but she did not let him.

''_Was_ a criminal, Raoul. But _never_ a monster, _never_ a beast,'' she snarled. ''I am sorry that I hit you. It was not an act of a lady and I am ashamed of it, but it had to be done to sober your whirling thoughts. I know that you wish me to be safe and I can understand that you believe your fears are justified. Indeed, they are. Raoul, I know who he is. I also know him far better than anyone else in the world, better than you, sometimes better than he knows himself. He will never change and I would never wish it. But, his _ways_ have changed. For me, he became a better man. He is a criminal no more. He has repented for many of his past sins. The most important thing is that I feel completely safe with him. I love him. He loves me so much that he would die if I left him. This is how I know he will never hurt me.''

''He needs to be brought to justice!'' Raoul insisted.

Christine nodded. ''So be it, Raoul. You know where he lives, you know where to find him. You can summon the gendarmes this very instant if you will. But know this. If Erik goes to the gallows, I follow him. This is not madness speaking, it is I, Christine Daaè. I do not believe in angels and phantoms anymore, I believe in a man. He is my destiny, and I am his. He is the other half of my soul. There is no other way. Have him arrested and I will commit a crime that will bring me back to him. Think what you will Raoul. What will you do now? What will you do?''

Raoul's eyes became wet. He tried to find traces of insanity in Christine, but he found none. He did not understand how that could be true, how such an angelic woman could love such an unworthy man, knowing all his faults and still persisting with her love. His heart was cleft in two halves and he realised that Christine and her fallen friend were bound together by a force no one could break. Raoul knew he could take Christine away by force and hide her from the fiend's far-reaching grasp, yet a voice inside him told him that she would wither away like a flower without water in a matter of days. With regret, he recognised her feelings as genuine. She was not blinded, she was not poisoned. She was in love, perhaps already beyond love, in that realm where one person could not exist without their half anymore. How could it have come to this?

After much deliberation and dramatic silence, Raoul spoke, ''Will I ever see you again, Christine?''

Christine knew what his question meant. She smiled through tears. ''I will look for you, Raoul, whenever I am near your home. I can promise you that.''

''Will _he_ allow it?'' Raoul asked bitterly.

''He will never be pleased when I visit you, but he will allow it. He trusts me. He simply does not trust you. You have that in common.''

Raoul smirked. ''I have only one thing in common with him and that is my love for you. There can only be one victor.''

''Do not say that, Raoul. Our lives were never part of a game and I am no prize. I only hope that, one day, you will forgive me. I exploited your love, I know…''

He took her hands into his and kissed them. ''You promised, my friend,'' he replied. ''It will not be goodbye for us, only _au revoir_. Until we meet again, Christine?'' His eyes were filled with tears.

She nodded solemnly. ''I will not break my promise. Raoul, I will be happy and safe. Every once in a while, I will write to you, my friend.''

He wanted to ask her so much. When would she marry, where would she live? But he did not. He only asked her one last question.

''And his opera? I am one of the patrons. What should I do?''

''I am glad you asked, for I have one request to make. Please, stage his opera as was planned. I will not sing the part of Aminta, but neither should La Carlotta. Open an audition for the role of Aminta.'' She reached into a hidden pocket of her dress and pulled out a folded note. ''Here are the instructions for the voice that you must find.''

He would have to find a voice that could hold a candle to Christine's. What a task! Raoul nodded. ''I will do it for you, Christine, not for him.''

''I thank you for your kindness. I shall never forget it.''

''Will you be there when the opera premieres?''

She smiled. ''Yes, we are going to be present, in secret.''

''Will I see you then?''

''You might,'' she answered cryptically.

They embraced in silence. Before they parted, she looked over her shoulder and said, ''I know you will find someone who will love you with all of her female heart. Perhaps, she will be a red-haired korrigan with a poetic soul. Her emerald eyes will sparkle in adoration for you, as they already do.''

Raoul frowned in confusion. When the door of the parlour closed behind Christine, leaving a bitter, cold void in his halved heart, his thoughts returned to Christine's last words before she vanished from his sight, back to her fallen angel's arms. The door opened again and in came Rosemonde, a tray with tea and crumpets perched on her ivory palms. For the first time, Raoul took a good look at her and a strange sensation stirred inside his soul. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the most magical woman he had ever talked to. He was not ready to heal his heart so soon, but he would be ready one day. He smiled and understood.


	15. The Wild Plunge

_CHAPTER 15: The Wild Plunge_

A fortnight passed and on a cold, gloomy day, like any other winter's day in Bretagne, when the Northern wind was howling and the pink granite shore was constantly assailed by the grey frothing waves, an intimate wedding ceremony was to take place in the church of Saint Columba the Virgin in Perros-Guirec. Christine spent her last maiden days at the Pioche's house, as was proper. She met often with Erik during those beautiful winter days, accompanied by Madame Pioche. Sometimes, Rosemonde would join them. Christine was not bothered by Rosemonde's presence anymore. She knew now why she was bothered in the first place. The girl was most certainly one of God's masterpieces, with her almost surreal beauty and a cryptic, highly observant nature and exquisite talent for coining words together into beautiful poetry. Christine was afraid that, somehow, Rosemonde and Erik would meet one day and Christine would not have his love anymore. She knew now how mistaken she was, how much she doubted herself. Even when Rosemonde and all of her charms followed her as a chaperon to Erik's château – Christine's future home – Erik's eyes and love were only for one woman, and she never changed appearances. She was always and forever Christine.

Now, on her wedding day, Christine was standing before the mirror in her old room in the cottage, dressed as a bride. Her attire was simple in design, but it cost a fortune, she was certain. She would have to remind Erik that it was not such a wise thing to turn into a pauper for her sake, however flattered she may have felt that she was the sole object of his desires. Her swan's neck was graced with a pearl necklace and her ears were adorned with pearl earrings. Her curls were arranged into a _chignon_ that was held together by pearl clasps. Christine smiled to herself. She knew the meaning of Erik's gifts. She told him the truth about her feelings from the day he came back to her life, just prior to his return. She remembered saying to him,

_Music has always been the fundamental element of my being. Without it, I felt like a dead creature, like a shell from the Pacific that looked beautiful on the outside, but was really empty on the inside, lacking the perfect white pearl that was its core. Without the pearl, the shell was empty, it was nothing. I lost that pearl, Erik._

Yesterday, he gave her his reply. Pearls. She fought him, trying to persuade him to return them, saying that they were far too expensive, but he would not listen. _Only the best for you_, he said, and that was the end of their discussion. She allowed him to win one battle, but she would not allow him to always have his way. He still had much to learn.

She heaved a sigh and sat down on the taburet by the mirror. It was time for the bride to deliberate her choice. She knew well whom she was soon to marry. Once, she finally persuaded him to tell her his story. His childhood was a miserable one. His mother did not love him, he was sold to the Gypsies, he performed as the Devil's child until no other but Madame Giry saved his life. She wept for him. But then, his story took a different turn. He confessed his murders to her. A gypsy – to save his life. Joseph Bouquet – to prove his power. She dared not ask whether there were more blood stains on his hands; she remained silent, shocked, trying to forget. He assured her himself that there were no other murders. She felt relief then, but she never forgot. _To prove his power…_Those words frightened her. The rest, she knew. His insanity, his obsession, his need to possess and have, have, have things his way. She also witnessed his recovery, his willingness, his need to just be a man, a simple, sinless man, allowed to love her. She allowed it, because she needed the same.

Yes, she knew him well, too well. She knew him whole. She had slowly learned how to see him, see through him, pierce his mind and read the darkest crevices of his thoughts. She had become an expert in her peculiar field of expertise. His ways changed, but he would never change. She knew that and she did not fear her future. She was convinced that Raoul, in secret, still thought her mad, but ironically enough, she was completely sane. She knew what she was doing. She even had her father's blessing. Erik told her he knew him once. Fate and certain individuals saw them together, bound forever, in pure harmony no one but they could understand. She loved Erik, without reason. One could not love Erik reasonably. Love for him either was, or was not. And hers was. Without him, she was nothing. Strangely enough, she reveled in that knowledge. She was his match. Ghost and angel, angel and ghost, both from another world.

The Pioches were to be present at church, no other soul. Madame Giry wished to come, but could not come without Meg. She refused to part from her child with deception on her mind. No more lies. Meg still knew nothing. She would never understand. Christine decided to write to her once she was wed. Perhaps then, when Meg saw her happy, she would be able to understand.

Christine was ready to proceed to the church. As she stood up on her feet, there was a gentle knock on the door and Rosemonde entered the room. She stood out, as always, with her red hair, her emerald gown and a red sash tied around her slim waist. Christine smiled and they shook hands in a lady-like manner. Christine knew that Rosemonde wished her good luck in marriage. Then, Rosemonde handed Christine a letter. She pointed at herself, then at Christine. Christine understood. Rosemonde wrote her a letter. She unfolded the well-known sheet of paper and read.

_Dear, Christine. Sounds present a barrier between us; therefore I have decided to write you a letter. As a woman, I wish you all the bridal happiness in the world that you can possibly imagine. As a friend, I shall divulge a secret to you. No one but me knows who your husband-to-be truly is and who you were in Paris. My parents care naught for the Paris newspapers. I read them and I put the pieces together. Now we have a secret that I shall never reveal. This secret, I hope, proves that our friendship may exist. There is no true friendship without a secret. You already know mine. Its name is Raoul. Rosemonde._

Christine was speechless. She knew not what to say, so she pulled Rosemonde into an embrace. Finally, there were no barriers between them anymore. Finally, they were friends. Christine was ready to become a wife.

* * *

A wife. He had a wife, a living bride, cradling his hands in hers, kissing his brow. She stayed. She married him. She was his because she wished to be his. That was more than the Phantom had ever hoped to have. And now, Erik Broussard had it. A wife, a living bride, a vision of perfection. The overwhelming feeling he had in his chest could not be described. He belonged to someone, and someone belonged to him. He looked at the gold ring on his finger several times, touching it carefully, afraid it would disappear. He looked at the gold ring wrapped around her ivory finger, the promise, the dream, the reality. The Phantom finally had his wife.

He was too afraid to leave his room and join her in what she chose as _their_ bedchamber. He was too afraid that he would frighten her and chase her away. He decided it was not entirely necessary for them to act like husband and wife at all times. It was enough to simply _be_ husband and wife. Was it not? He had been called a genius. On this night, he was a frightened man. Despite the vast amount of diverse knowledge he possessed, he knew not how exactly he was expected to grace his wife with his presence tonight. Was he supposed to talk to her and kindly persuade her to lie with a man like him, or should he just enter _their_ bedchamber and lure her into his arms with his voice? That would not be entirely fair.

She made the decision for him. She knew exactly how he felt. She knew her Erik all too well, so she came to him, instead of him coming to her. She found him lingering in the window niche of his room, pondering, fearing the night to come, fearing himself, doubting himself. She would simply have to persuade him that, truly, she would never leave him and that she desired him, just as he desired her. He looked at her standing between his door and she walked to him slowly, like a vision of light. She peeled the mask from his face swiftly and kissed him on the lips before he could even think of protesting.

''Now,'' she whispered, ''do not fear me or life. I love you.''

He sighed, desperate. ''I am afraid I will hurt you tonight. You have always been so delicate and fragile, and I so unworthy…''

She smiled. ''You know better than that, Erik, do you not? Trust me, you will not hurt me. I know,'' she blushed severely, ''that one's first…intimate encounter may not be the most pleasant of things, but we have come so far. We can do anything, my angel. Unless,'' she paused strategically, dramatically, intentionally, ''you do not wish me for your wife anymore…''

His reaction was expected. ''That is impossible, Christine, and well you know it. I love you and…desire you as well.''

Her lips spread into a brilliant smile, her cheeks still suffering from previous blushing escapades. ''Good, because I find myself feeling the same. Now, let us take this plunge into darkness.''

''You can still change your mind.''

''Never.''

She leaned against his chest and kissed him with all the love she possessed, coaxing him to let go of his fears, his doubts and his past. She was already his and they would never be individual beings again. He did not need much persuasion after her teasing kiss. Finally, he let go. Together, they let go. Their future awaited them. The best of all symphonies.

Erik and Christine took the first of many wild plunges into it and began to live.


	16. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

Two months later, Don Juan triumphed on the stage of the Opera Populaire, with Signor Ubaldo Piangi as the ancient seducer, and the new star of the opera house, Adèle Chevalier, as the innocent and seduced Aminta. Opinions were divided. Some said that the music was too rough and far too modern to belong to the traditional world of opera. Others claimed that the newest opera marked a new beginning. The latter prevailed. Only a few knew who the true composer was. They were those who attended the New Year's masquerade now so long ago. Many had forgotten, but some never did, never would.

During the performance, Raoul sat in the box opposite to the notorious box five, searching for two silhouettes, two shadows, one bright, the other for ever veiled in darkness. He knew she would be there, for she promised to see the opera. Raoul did not see her, or him, but he knew, felt, that they were somewhere near, watching, sighing with love for the Phantom's music and each other. This knowledge did not cause Raoul pain anymore. His love for Christine had changed. He had changed. He had a different future to look forward to, he was certain. As the performance ended and more than half of the audience stood up to give the performers a standing ovation, applauding excitedly, Raoul slipped from his box. His parents, the count and countess de Chagny, did not notice his departure. They were still under the spell of the powerful and soulful music. Raoul smiled to himself. After all, he had to admit one thing. Although he would never accept Christine's husband, his former competitor and enemy, he was reasonable enough to accept the fact that his music had a shattering effect on people, one way or the other. His music contained life. So be it.

As he was walking through the grand foyer, smoothing the lapels of his waistcoat and adjusting his neatly arranged cravat, an usher stopped him.

''Monsieur le vicomte, forgive me the intrusion,'' the man spoke, ''but a lady left a letter for you.''

Raoul frowned. ''A lady?''

In answer, the usher handed Raoul the letter. Raoul opened it and read the short contents.

_Dear friend, this evening's performance was perfection incarnate. I thank you for staging the opera. Although reluctantly, my husband appreciates your kindness as well. Live well, my friend. Soon, you shall receive my greetings from Sweden. Yours truly, forever your friend, Christine._

_P.S. Upon witnessing the success of Don Juan Triumphant, we would like to purchase the rights to the work, for the opera to come into the hands of Erik Broussard, a composer and musician. The Phantom of the Opera is gone and he will not object, I am sure. Soon, a letter for this purpose shall be sent to you. Until we meet again…_

Raoul folded the letter with speed and put it in his vest pocket.

''How did the lady look? I do not ask after her physical appearance, but after her emotions. Can you tell me, man?'' Raoul asked the usher. ''And please, speak fast, I am in a hurry!''

Confused, the usher spoke, ''Er, well, monsieur, I am not really sure…But, I suppose she looked happy. Er, that is, I can vouch that she looked very happy. What is the word….Ah, radiant…''

''Thank you!'' Raoul answered and ran towards the entrance gate, out of the opera house, onto the square that stretched before the magnificent building. There, he saw a carriage, a team of four beautiful blacks waiting to proceed with the journey they had started. A woman, a cloak concealing her frame, was about to enter the carriage. Suddenly, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. Her face lit up with a smile and she waved.

_Christine._

Raoul waved back and exclaimed, ''It shall be done, madam, for my old friend!''

She nodded, obviously pleased, and disappeared inside the carriage. A whip cracked and the horses moved. Raoul watched until the carriage, with Christine inside its walls, disappeared from his sight. He knew he would not see Christine for a long time. However, he was content to see her happy. The look in her eyes calmed him. Although he knew who her husband was, he was at peace with this notion. He did not have to worry about Christine. Not anymore.

A year later, Raoul would hear of the great success of one Erik Broussard and his wife, the seraphic voice of the North, in Sweden. But not yet. He knew not the future yet.

On the following day, Raoul was exercising his horse in the Bois de Vincennes, his most beloved place in the world. He was observing the floating boats on Lake _Daumesnil. _In some of them were young lovers, unchaperoned, sharing secrets and kisses with each other. He sighed with longing, feeling the void in his heart, the void that had not been filled yet. He dismounted and tethered his horse to a tree. He sat down in the grass, closed his eyes and tried not to think or feel at all. His goal was to reach inner peace that only love could give. When he opened his eyes, he thought he was dreaming, for before him stood the woman that had begun to appear in his dreams of late. Her image in his dreams was unexpected and he could not explain it. Her presence before his eyes was beyond his comprehension of everything.

He jumped to his feet. ''Rosemonde,'' he breathed.

She had a small notebook placed around her neck, a pencil attached to it. She smiled her enchanting smile and handed him a small piece of paper.

_Good day, monsieur le vicomte. I am visiting Paris with my parents. They are not with me today, so you might join me for a walk?_

Raoul's eyes glimmered. She was the answer. He felt she was; he believed she was. Without hesitation, he offered her his hand. With that gesture, he offered her himself. Finally, he found his destiny, and Rosemonde found hers.

As for the Phantom and his Christine, I can only tell you that they were never seen again in France. They enjoyed their lives in the North. She sang, he composed, until the end of their days. Not much more is known, for apart from her appearing on stage to perform, they were rarely seen in public. However, I am able to tell you one thing. They were happy.

* * *

**A BIG THANK YOU TO ALL WHO REVIEWED**, REGULARLY AND NOT SO REGULARLY (in alphabetical order):

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I also thank those who were reading/read this story, but did not review, and who were kind enough to put this story to their favourite stories. This is much appreciated.


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